Once the last guests had arrived and been given a drink, Fran announced to the room at large that the “entertainment” was about to begin. Lou took a seat at one end of the room, which had been kept clear of guests and opened a book. Everybody quietened down and Lou announced that he was going to read Green Tea by Sheridan Le Fanu. It turned out to be a short ghost story about a sea captain, living in Dublin, haunted by a mysterious dwarf who resembled somebody from the captain’s troubled past. It was dark and atmospheric and Lou read with total conviction. When he’d spoken the last sentence there was a deep, appreciative silence and then a burst of polite applause. Lou smiled, closed the book and then looked around the room. ‘I wonder,’ he said, ‘if I might persuade my good friend Mr William Henley to come up here and give us a reading of his wonderful poem, Invictus?’
William made a few modest protestations, but the crowd urged him to accept the challenge and so, after a few moments, he gamely hobbled to the top of the room and sat in the chair that Lou had just vacated. He waited in what appeared to be deep concentration and then began to recite a poem in his rich, resonant tones. It was only four verses long, but when he reached the final stanza, Tom was vaguely surprised to realise that he’d heard it somewhere before, though he couldn’t say exactly where.
It matters not how strait the gate,
How charged with punishments the scroll,
I am the master of my fate,
I am the captain of my soul.
There was enthusiastic applause when he’d finished and William smiled and nodded his thanks around the room. Then he sat for a moment, looking at the other guests and Tom realized how this worked. The person who had just performed chose the next one in line. William’s gaze swept around the room and then came to rest on Lloyd, who Tom noticed was grinning
and preening as though eager to be the focus of everyone’s attention.
‘I wonder,’ boomed William, ‘if I might prevail upon young Lloyd to come up here and give us a reading of one of his favourites?’
Lloyd was up there like a shot, almost before William had finished talking and there was an awkward wait while the poet got himself upright and limped back to join the others. Lloyd stood for a moment, a grave expression on his face, ensuring that he had everyone’s undivided attention and then announced in a very serious voice, ‘I would now like to recite Casabianca by Mrs Felicia Hemans.’ He paused. ‘One of the finest poems ever written,’ he added.
There were appreciative murmurs from the crowd and Tom supposed that this must be a particular favourite, though he didn’t think he knew the poem. He glanced at Cat, but her gaze was, for the moment, fixed on Lloyd as he struck a dramatic pose and began his recitation.
The boy stood on the burning deck
Whence all but he had fled;
The flame that lit the battle’s wreck
Shone round him o’er the dead.
Tom realized that he had heard the poem, or rather parodies of it, in his own era, where it seemed to have become an object of derision. He knew his father was fond of quoting a different version.
The boy stood on the burning deck.
His lips were all a quiver.
He gave a cough, his head dropped off
And floated down the river.
Whatever awaited it in the future, the poem was well received. Everyone listened with rapt attention. The problem was that Lloyd was over-egging it completely, speaking in a portentous tone and acting out every gesture in an exaggerated style, lifting a hand to his head, pointing at imagined clouds of smoke and pacing around the room like the unfortunate child in the poem. But when he reached the final lines, he was rewarded with more enthusiastic applause than his predecessors, together with cries of ‘Bravo!’ Lloyd bowed ostentatiously and then with that superior smirk on his face, he started scanning the onlookers, searching for a victim. Tom knew in that moment that he would be chosen next and he wondered what he might do to get out of it.
‘Tom Afflick,’ said Lloyd, still smirking. ‘Mysterious Tom. Perhaps you’d like to step up here and give us one of your favourites?’
‘Oh, er . . . I don’t . . . I can’t . . .’ Tom tried to protest, but all around him people were urging him to take up the challenge and he didn’t really see how he could avoid this without offending his hosts. He glanced helplessly at Cat and she gave him a steely look.
‘Surely you’re not going to back down?’ she murmured. ‘That’s not the Tom I seem to remember.’
Tom sighed, lifted his hands in capitulation. He started walking though the audience and as he did so his mind was desperately turning over the possibilities. Poems? He didn’t know any poems, apart from the bawdy ditties he sometimes heard from his friends, which frankly wouldn’t be suitable for this occasion. So what then? There must be something he could do.
As he approached the chair where Lloyd was waiting, grinning mockingly at him, Tom noticed something resting against the wall beside the chair – an acoustic guitar. He had what he thought might be a brainwave. He watched as Lloyd vacated the chair and swaggered back into the midst of the audience. Tom picked up the guitar, slung the strap around his neck and strummed a couple of chords. Luckily, it appeared to be more or less in tune. He looked around for Lou. ‘Is it all right if I use this?’ he asked.
‘Of course,’ said Lou, smiling. ‘A musician too? Is there no end to your talents, Tom?’
Tom frowned. Calling him a musician was stretching a bit, since he only knew the one song. It wasn’t even a particular favourite of his, but his dad loved it and often asked Tom to play it for him, especially when he’d had a pint or two. And Lloyd had asked for something from Manchester.
Tom took a deep breath and started strumming the rhythm. He hung back as long as he could, but finally decided he’d have to take the plunge. He started the first verse. His voice was thin but just about in tune, he thought and he tried not to register the puzzled expressions of the people watching him. But his voice strengthened when he hit the chorus and then he couldn’t help but notice that amongst the crowd, heads were beginning to nod, feet were beginning to tap and then all of a sudden, people started clapping along. By the time he hit the second verse, everyone was joining in, everyone but Lloyd, who stood there with a furious scowl on his face.
Tom took it to the final chorus and by then he had the crowd virtually eating out of his hand. There were even voices joining in on the repeated chorus, even though the singers probably hadn’t the faintest idea what a Wonderwall was or where they might expect to find one. The final chord died away to be replaced by an absolute torrent of heartfelt applause. Tom made a self-conscious bow, unslung the guitar and propped it back against the wall. He swung around and waited for the applause to die down, noticing with a hint of satisfaction that Lloyd was in the act of stalking out of the room, an expression of pure fury on his face.
Now it was Tom’s turn to pick somebody and though he made a show of looking around the crowd he knew exactly who it was going to be.
‘Catriona,’ he said. ‘I wonder if you remember a little song that you and your brother sang for me one time? The Bird In The Hay?’
Cat’s face was a picture. For an instant it registered delight at the memory and then switched to a look of apprehension as she realised she was going to have to perform the song.
‘Oh, I don’t know if my poor voice is up to such a task,’ she protested.
Tom gave her a look. ‘Surely you’re not going to back down?’ he said. ‘That’s not the Cat I remember.’
She smiled then and urged on by those around her, she came forward to take Tom’s place. As they passed each other, she took his hand for a moment and leaned close to whisper in his ear. ‘This is the happiest night I’ve had in years,’ she told him, and then they moved on past each other. Cat turned to look at her audience. She cleared her throat.
‘The song that Tom refers to is a silly little ditty that Fraser and I used to sing at the sessional school when we were bai
rns. It’s no masterpiece and I’m no singer, but I trust you will forgive us both our considerable shortcomings.’
She closed her eyes for a moment and then began to sing.
The bird in the hay, one bright summer’s day
He sang as he flew o’er the meadow.
Oh can’t you all see, that I’m healthy and free
And I’m such a handsome young fellow?’
She’d been wrong about her voice, Tom decided. It was as sweet as ever. He remembered now, the last time she’d sung it for him and shortly afterwards how she’d told him that she believed his crazy stories of travelling in space and time. He’d wanted to kiss her then but had been uncomfortably aware of her brother watching them like a hawk; and now it occurred to him that such a moment would never come again, because he’d aged one year since then and she had aged more than fifty. He couldn’t help feeling really sad about that.
The sound of applause brought him back to the present. Cat was bowing and smiling and thanking everyone for their kind appreciation. Her eyes met Tom’s and he saw that they were full of tears and he knew exactly how she felt. His own eyes filled and he felt a gentle hand on his shoulder. He looked up and saw Fran gazing at him in concern.
‘Why Tom, whatever’s wrong?’ she asked him.
He shrugged, shook his head. ‘Memories,’ he said.
She frowned. ‘I don’t really understand,’ she murmured.
‘Oh, yeah?’ Tom wiped at his eyes with his sleeve. ‘What’s that?’
‘Something that you said, just now. That Miss McCallum and her brother sang that song for you. But, forgive me, I understood her brother died a very long time ago. I would have thought . . . before you were even born?’
Tom stared at her. He had no answer for that.
‘I think I’ll get myself another glass of cordial,’ he said, and hurried away.
Fourteen
The party broke up around midnight. The Stevensons had engaged the services of a whole row of hansom cabs to take their guests to their homes and one by one, people were called out to the hallway to say goodbye to their hosts. When it came to Tom and Cat’s turn, he noticed that there was no sign of Lloyd. Fran explained that the boy had felt tired and had gone to his room, but Tom felt sure he just hadn’t liked being overshadowed by Tom’s performance. The thought that Lloyd might be annoyed with him made him distinctly nervous.
‘You are a constant surprise,’ Lou told Tom, as a manservant helped him on with his coat. ‘That song you performed, I can honestly say I’ve never heard anything like it.’ Lou had consumed quite a bit of whisky over the evening and was what Tom’s dad liked to describe as ‘well-oiled’.
‘Oh, it’s just an old Manchester thing,’ Tom assured him. ‘Seriously, you hear nothing else round my way.’
‘I must see if I can get the sheet music. Who is the composer?’
‘Erm, he’s called Noel Gallagher. But I don’t think it’ll be available just yet. Not for quite a while, actually.’
Lou turned his attention to Cat. ‘And your performance, too, Mrs McCallum. A real joy. Thank you so much for sharing it.’ He leaned a little closer, as if to confess a secret. ‘You know, I must confess, I had always thought of you as a much more serious person. But after tonight, I’ve realised that some people have hidden depths.’
‘Thank you, I’m sure,’ said Cat. ‘I believe it’s Tom who brings out my more playful nature. It’s wonderful to have him back.’
‘He’s been away?’ murmured Fran, suspiciously. She had been asking awkward questions all night, her suspicions clearly aroused.
‘Umm, well, not “away” exactly. It’s just been a while since we’ve been able to spend time together. I’m afraid I’ve been somewhat lax in my duties as a godmother.’ She took Lou’s hands in hers. ‘Well, Mr Stevenson, it has been a splendid evening, I have enjoyed myself immensely.’ She fixed him with a commanding look. ‘Now, please don’t forget. Treasure Island. It is destined to be a book and I feel sure that with application, it will be. But that all depends
on you.’
Tom was aware of Fran looking on suspiciously as Cat spoke, so he took her arm and led her towards the open doorway. ‘We must be on our way,’ he announced. ‘Merry Christmas everyone!’
‘Merry Christmas, Tom,’ shouted Lou, too drunk to notice anything amiss, but Tom was aware of Fran gazing after them as they went out of the door.
‘Something wrong?’ murmured Cat.
‘We don’t want to lay it on too thick,’ said Tom. ‘Fran’s as sharp as a knife, I think she knows we’re up to some . . .’ He broke off in surprise. It was snowing, big thick flakes drifting down from the heavens.
‘How lovely,’ murmured Cat. ‘Just in time for Christmas.’
They crossed the pavement to the hansom cab, the door of which was being held open by another manservant. Tom hesitated and looked suspiciously up at the cabbie, sitting at the back. The man’s face was covered with a scarf, so Tom gestured to him to reveal it, which he did, looking puzzled. But the face beneath the scarf was perfectly normal, so Tom turned back and helped Cat climb up into the cab.
‘What was that about?’ she murmured as Tom perched himself on the seat opposite her.
‘Just not taking any chances,’ he told her. ‘I had a dodgy ride in one of these things the other night.’
‘Dodgy?’ The word was clearly unfamiliar to her.
‘Unsafe,’ he elaborated.
They heard the sound of the cabbie clicking his tongue and the hansom cab moved away at a more leisurely speed than on Tom’s previous trip.
‘Do you think we managed to persuade Lou to continue with his book?’ asked Cat anxiously.
‘I hope so,’ said Tom. Then an idea occurred to him. ‘Let’s check,’ he suggested. He reached into the pocket of his coat and pulled out the sheets of paper that he’d left there. It was hard to be sure in the uncertain light of the cab, but he could see that once again, all the pages had some kind of content on them. ‘I think we’re ok,’ he said. ‘I’ll check again when the light’s a bit better.’
Cat shook her head. ‘I don’t really understand what those pages represent,’ she said.
‘It’s kind of hard to explain,’ said Tom. ‘You see, in the future, there’s a thing called the World Wide Web. It’s like . . . it’s like an invisible rope that links people all over the globe. So, I can sit at a computer in Manchester and you could be on another computer in Edinburgh.’ He noticed the look on her face. ‘A computer is a machine that . . . well, it’s kind of like a mechanical brain that can hold all this knowledge − every bit of information that’s ever been thought of in the entire history of the world . . . and I can tap into it any time I want to find out about something −’ He was struggling now and he tried to think of an example. ‘Well, you take The Path of Truth, for instance. I read about it in the museum and I wanted to read the book. But I was told it was out of print. So I went to my computer and I typed in the name and there it was.’
‘Where was it?’ asked Cat, mystified.
‘Just sort of floating around on something called Project Gutenberg. And I was able to pull the pages down onto my screen and . . .’ He shook his head. He realised there was no way that he could ever make her understand such a thing. The truth was, he didn’t really understand how it worked himself. He waved the printed sheets. ‘These pages tell us things that are going to happen in the future,’ he said and decided that for the time being, it was the best he was going to be able to manage. He made an attempt to change the subject. ‘Hey, that was a great party, wasn’t it?’
Cat smiled. ‘I really enjoyed it. The Stevensons are a delightful family, don’t you think?’ She studied him for a moment. ‘Though I have to confess that Lou’s stepson is a bit of a handful. I’ll hazard a guess and say that the two of you aren’t really the best of friends.’
Tom nodded. ‘He’s so full of himself. Did you see him, doing that poem? He thought he was Benedict flippi
ng Cumberbatch.’
‘He thought he was what?’
‘It’s a “who”, not a “what”. An actor, back in my time. Thinks he’s “it”. And so does Lloyd.’ He frowned. ‘Trouble is, he knows all about me now. He’s the only one who does, apart from you.’
‘Was it wise, telling him?’
‘No, it wasn’t. But I sort of had to. I was in a fix.’
‘And it worries you that he knows?’
‘Yes. See, I can trust you but Lloyd . . . well, he’s such a div.’
‘A div?’
‘Yeah, you know. A fruitcake. A dimmock. A spod.’
Cat smiled. ‘I’m beginning to wish I’d brought my notebook,’ she said. ‘I’d forgotten about all your funny little expressions.’
‘Yes, well, all I’m saying is, the first time Lloyd’s not happy about something, he’s going to tell Lou
and Fran. And I don’t know what will happen, if he does that.’
‘What’s the worst that could happen?’
Tom sighed. ‘Well, let’s see. He’ll get Lou all mixed up in it. Lou will forget about those revisions on Treasure Island. It’ll never get published as a book. Lou won’t become a famous writer. And it’ll be all my fault.’
Cat nodded. ‘That is an appalling prospect,’ she agreed. She sighed. ‘So, what’s the answer?’
Tom frowned. ‘I suppose we could always murder Lloyd.’ He saw the expression on Cat’s face and shook his head. ‘Only kidding,’ he added.
One for Sorrow Page 11