She took it naturally, fell easily into step with him, not skipping.
‘Where are you taking me?’ she asked, at length.
‘You’ll see,’ Forbes answered, grinning, and led her briskly round the corner into St George’s Road.
* * *
It had been the devil of a week, the devil of a journey home.
Tom had persuaded Martin to leave Portsmouth before the horse-power trial which had taken place in seas that Melrose deemed ‘moderate’ but that seemed a little more steep than that to Tom. Fortunately the wind had flattened before the Banshee had steamed out into the Channel for her coal-endurance test and the run to Bilbao and back – a distance of over a thousand nautical miles, a fair haul for an old torpedo-boat in the spring season – had been completed almost without incident. He had nursed the boilers as best he could and had had MacDougal stand guard over the navy stokers who were inclined to be lazy and erratic. And there had been a spot of bother during the brief coaling dock at Bilbao when one of the stokers had somehow lost a tooth and MacDougal had somehow acquired a shiner – neither mishap being related to the other, of course.
On returning to Portsmouth, it had taken him half a day to check his figures against those on Jason Melrose’s records and sign for the accuracy of the reports, then MacDougal and he had hot-footed it to London just in time to catch a Friday-night sleeper to Glasgow. He had arrived, bleary and stiff, in Central Station in the grey light of morning, had bid the foreman farewell and, indulging himself for once, had hired a hackney to take him out to Queensview which he reached just as breakfast was being cleared away.
Mrs Grogan, the landlady, had been kind enough to find him a spare plate of porridge and a couple of fried eggs, however, and he had eaten alone in the dining-room, relieved to be back where he belonged.
His mail, such as it was, had been put in his room and, as soon as he had washed, shaved and changed his clothing, he carried the letters into the parlour, seated himself in the dusty moquette armchair in the window alcove, lit a cigarette and opened the first of the three envelopes.
It was, as he’d expected, the monthly bill from his sister-in-law, Florence. He cast his eye down the list of items: camisole, stockings, a moirette silk petticoat – whatever that was – at twelve shillings and ninepence, Nainsook knickers at five shillings and sixpence. Tom didn’t doubt the accuracy of Florence’s accounting – purchase receipts were enclosed – but he did sometimes wonder where the great heap of clothing that Sylvie had acquired at his expense was stored, for the Hartnells’ apartment was small and spartan. He checked Florence’s addition, found it correct, sighed and put the bill to one side to deal with shortly.
He opened the second envelope: a personal memo from Perry Perrino scripted in bright green ink informing him that there would be a massed choirs practice in St Andrew’s Halls at two o’clock on Sunday afternoon and that he, Perry, hoped that he, Tom, would be able to attend.
Pleased that he had not been left out, Tom put that letter aside, too.
He opened the third envelope and gave a little grunt of surprise: a printed invitation to a musical evening with Mr Owen Franklin at Harper’s Hill. Across the bottom of the card Owen Franklin had scribbled: ‘Do hope you can come, Tom,’ as if he were already one of the inner circle and deserved the old boy’s personal attention.
He lifted his cigarette from the ashtray and inhaled deeply.
This Sunday, ‘The Cameronian’s Dream’.
Next Saturday, an ‘At Home’ at Harper’s Hill.
By gum! Tom thought. Things are looking up in the world.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Floating Capital
‘What,’ Lindsay said, ‘do you want to do this afternoon? Go out for a walk?’
‘In this dreary weather?’ Forbes said. ‘No, I’m perfectly happy to sit tight and wait for Runciman to fetch us afternoon tea.’
‘Miss Runciman.’
‘Miss Runciman then.’
Forbes stretched an arm along the back of the sofa and toyed with a lock of Lindsay’s hair. She felt no particular excitement. She knew by experience that nothing would come of his flirting. She would have preferred to be out of doors, even if only for a short promenade along Brunswick Crescent. Forbes was right, though; the weather was not conducive to exercise.
A mild, misty drizzle enveloped Clydeside. Drab evergreens and trees not yet in bud dripped moisture, the big windows of the drawing-room were opaque with condensation. Church that morning had smelled distinctly damp, not wintry but bluff and loamy. The weather had failed to quash Papa’s enthusiasm for the massed choir rehearsal, however. He had hurried off straight from kirk to catch a bite of lunch at Harper’s Hill before Donald and he walked the short distance to St Andrew’s Halls together.
Forbes had appeared at the front door about half past two o’clock. Miss Runciman had shown him into the drawing-room.
Lindsay had been been upstairs in the library engrossed in the latest issue of The Shipbuilder when Miss Runciman, wearing her everlasting smile, had announced Forbes’s arrival. Showing no sign of annoyance at the interruption, Lindsay went downstairs at once, prepared to behave as if she were overjoyed. The sight of Forbes in his Sunday best had given her a lift, for however tedious she found his conversations of late his charm more than made up for it.
By half past three, though, she was bored again. She was loath to admit even to herself that she took less and less pleasure in Forbes’s company these days. She still loved him, of course she did, but she could hardly recall the magnetism that had once attracted her to him.
He toyed with her hair, then, letting his hand slide from her shoulder, appeared to lose interest. He rolled out of the sofa, put his hands in his trouser pockets and meandered to the window.
Then he said, ‘Are you in a position to get married yet?’
He jingled coins in his pockets and did not seem in the least interested in her reply.
‘What do you mean, Forbes, “in a position”? Of course I’m in a position to get married. I’m single and over twenty-one.’
‘I mean,’ he said, ‘financially.’
‘Ah!’
He returned to the sofa and leaned his forearms on the back of it, giving her his full attention. ‘How much did your trust turn up?’
‘I’m not sure you have a right to ask me that,’ Lindsday said.
‘Oh, come on, my love,’ Forbes said. ‘If I’m going to take you on then I’m entitled to know how much you’re worth.’
‘What did you say?’
‘Sorry.’ He smiled sheepishly. ‘That didn’t sound right, did it?’
‘Just for a moment you sounded like a real Irish horse-coper.’ Lindsay let her pique show. ‘Take me on indeed! What a callous way of putting it.’
He slid an arm about her, cupped her shoulder, nuzzled her neck. His cheek was shaven smooth and she could smell cologne. She wondered when he had taken to wearing cologne.
‘I mean,’ Forbes said, ‘if we plan to set a date this year then we have to be practical about it. I want you, Linnet. Can’t you tell how much I need you? I really can’t wait much longer.’ He kissed her neck, letting his lips linger. ‘That’s all I meant.’
She felt guilty. The touch of his lips was so tender and loving that she could not help but forgive him. She covered his hand with hers. It was so still and clammy in the drawing-room that the rustle of her skirts sounded like a crackle of thunder. Where was Miss Runciman? Probably in the kitchen personally preparing the neat little sardine sandwiches that Forbes professed to adore. What would Miss Runciman say, Lindsay wondered, if she came into the drawing-room and found them sprawled on the carpet in a passionate embrace?
‘It’s too early to consider announcing our engagement,’ Lindsay said. ‘I’m no less keen than you to be married but my father does have a point.’
‘What point is that, sweetheart?’
‘You’re not twenty-one yet.’
‘What’s that got to
do with it?’
‘You’re not – not established.’
He came swiftly around the sofa, seated himself by her side and took her face between his hands. ‘Look at me, Linnet. Do I seem like a boy to you?’
She shook her head. His hands tightened, fingertips finding and resting on the pulses behind her ears. He said, ‘Do you think a man has to be twenty-one to make a woman happy?’
‘Forbes…’
‘Linnet, I don’t want to lose you.’
‘Lose me?’
‘To someone else.’
‘There is no one else.’
He took a deep breath, released it. ‘No,’ he said. ‘No, of course there isn’t.’ He slid his hands from her face and sat back. ‘Anyhow, I thought we were going to be practical.’
‘And talk about money, you mean?’
‘If you like,’ Forbes said.
‘Are you asking me how much I’m worth?’
‘Oh, I see. That’s what’s got you riled, is it? No, Lindsay, that’s not what I’m asking, not at all.’
‘What then?’
‘I want to know how much we’ll be worth when the time comes.’
‘Haven’t you asked Martin?’
‘He claims he doesn’t know.’
‘Donald then, or Pappy?’ Lindsay said. ‘You’re fully entitled to see the figures – or your mother is. I’m not sure how trust law works when juveniles are involved.’
‘Juveniles! Jesus, I hate that expression. I’ll be twenty-one next year. I’ll have finished my diploma course and most of my managerial training. I’ll be established. You’ve seen the figures. You know what I’ll be earning. Will it be enough, Linnet, just tell me that? Can we make do?’
‘Don’t be ridiculous, Forbes. Of course we can make do. Good Lord, you’re carrying on as if we were being condemned to nail-biting poverty.’
‘I don’t want to have to depend on anyone.’
‘I applaud that sentiment,’ Lindsay said. ‘But it doesn’t alter the fact that my father doesn’t want us to marry until you’re older.’
‘How old? Twenty-five, thirty-five? Forty, fifty? Until my cock withers and drops off?’
‘Forbes!’
‘Well, it’s the truth, Linnet. Your daddy doesn’t want you to get married at all, especially not to me. He likes having his little girl at home. It makes him feel ageless. And then along comes this hairy Dubliner—’
‘Nonsense! Absolute nonsense!’
‘Are you blushing?’
‘No.’
‘You are, damn it, you’re blushing.’ He touched her again, brushing her hair with his palm. This time she shivered. ‘Is it that naughty word I used? I notice you know what it means?’
‘Forbes, please. Don’t.’
‘No,’ he said. ‘You’re right as usual. I mustn’t taunt myself. We’ve got to be sensible, practical – nice. Nothing else for it.’
‘Twelve hundred pounds,’ Lindsay said.
He whistled.
‘Twelve hundred and eighteen pounds and eleven shillings.’
He whistled again.
‘Including accrued interest.’
‘At what rate?’ Forbes asked.
‘I’ve no idea,’ Lindsay answered.
‘Say, eleven hundred base over three years. Say, three hundred and sixty per annum. Halve it for one per cent. Multiply by seven. Good God!’
‘It’s a great deal of money.’
‘I’ll say it is.’ He whistled once more, not silently. ‘If you add in the interest, I’ll be picking up not far short of five thousand quid on my birthday.’
‘Had you no idea that Franklin’s were doing so well?’
‘None. Not really. Not in hard cash.’ He permitted himself a grin. ‘Small wonder that Rora Swann considers our Martin a rare old catch.’
‘I don’t think the money matters. I think she loves him.’
‘Of course she does,’ Forbes said. ‘Same as I love you.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Well, I can’t just be after your money, my love, can I?’ He eased himself back in the sofa and put his hands behind his head. ‘Do you know what the arithmetic means, Lindsay?’ He did not allow her to answer. ‘It means we don’t have to kowtow to anyone. We can do as we damned well please, whenever we please.’
‘Forbes, I really don’t think we should get carried—’
With startling agility he leaped forward and snared her about the waist. He was alert and animated, no longer distant. No longer boring. He kissed her mouth firmly, kissed it again.
‘Let’s do it, Linnet,’ he said.
‘Do – do what?’
‘Between you and me, Lindsay, just between ourselves, let’s agree a date.’
‘For what?’
‘Our wedding, of course,’ said Forbes.
* * *
Tom could not make up his mind if the Hartnells deliberately set out to make him feel small or if it was merely negligence that caused them to offer him a low wooden chair. He didn’t think that Florence was the devious type but he was less sure about her husband. Something about Albert rubbed Tom up the wrong way and it would not have surprised him to learn that the chap had sawn the legs off the chair just to increase his awkwardness.
The tenement apartment was furnished with odd bits and pieces of furniture and not much of it at that. It was, however, clean; far too clean, not just spotless but scrubbed within an inch of its life, every plate, spoon and fork, every square inch of worn linoleum buffed by one of the damp bristle brushes that were propped like artillery shells on the draining board over the sink. Even the pan of tripe and onions that bubbled on the stove smelled more antiseptic than appetising.
Tom tucked his heels under the spar of the chair and, bent almost double, tried not to click his chin on his knees. Florence and Albert were seated at the kitchen table. There was nothing on the table, not so much as a crumb.
‘You’ve brought payment, I assume?’ said Florence.
‘I have,’ Tom answered.
He fumbled to free an elbow, dipped into his overcoat pocket and produced a signed cheque. He craned forward, chest to thighs, reached up and offered the cheque to the couple. Albert glanced at Florence. Florence nodded. Albert took the cheque and passed it to Florence. Florence studied it with care.
‘I think you’ll find it in order,’ Tom said.
‘Hmm, you took your time with it,’ Florence said.
‘I’ve been away on business. Working.’
Tom gave the word ‘working’ a little extra emphasis. He had a suspicion that work was anathema to Albert Hartnell who, when interrogated, admitted only to being a ‘contractual storeman’, whatever that entailed, and would not be drawn into naming his current employers. If, fourteen years ago, Tom had known the Hartnells better he would not have handed his daughter into their care: it was too late to reclaim Sylvie now, though.
Albert said, ‘Africa again?’
‘Portsmouth.’
‘At the naval dockyard?’ Albert said.
‘Yes,’ Tom said, to save further explanation.
‘Rule Britannia!’ Albert said. ‘Britain rules the waves, what!’
‘Albert,’ Florence warned in a dreadfully deep voice. ‘Enough out of you.’
Tom squirmed. His joints were locking up. He eased back, tried to stretch, felt the knob of the chair-back dig into the base of his spine like a poking finger.
‘Where’s Sylvie?’ he said.
‘Out,’ said Albert.
‘Resting,’ said Florence.
Tripped on a small lie, the Hartnells frowned at each other.
‘Which is it to be?’ Tom said. ‘Out or resting?’
‘Ah, is she in then, dear?’ Albert said, widening his eyes. ‘Has she returned from being, from being – out?’
‘She’s lying down in the room,’ said Florence.
‘Of course, of course she is,’ Albert said. ‘Having a nice wee nap, I expect. I wouldn’t want to distu
rb her, would you, Tom?’
‘What’s wrong with her?’ Tom asked. His indifference to Sylvie’s welfare was only skin deep, it seemed. He could not entirely erase the guilt and responsibility that were the very essences of fatherhood. ‘Is she ill?’
‘Ill? Oh, no – hah-hah – course she ain’t ill,’ said Albert.
‘She’s – unwell, shall we say,’ Florence told him.
‘I’d like to see her,’ said Tom.
‘She is asleep,’ said Florence.
‘Has she been missing her schooling?’
‘Not a single day,’ said Florence. ‘She isn’t that unwell.’
‘I see,’ said Tom uncomfortably. ‘I trust she hasn’t been overdoing it.’
‘What do you mean?’ said Albert. ‘Overdoing what?’
‘Church work, Mission work, school,’ Tom said. ‘Burning the candle, sort of thing.’ He was tempted to add ‘like her mother before her’, but he did not consider the remark appropriate. Besides, Florence had been just as shocked as he had been when her sister’s moral collapse came to light.
‘She’s very dedicated to the Coral Strand,’ said Florence.
‘No stopping her,’ said Albert.
‘I would like to see her,’ said Tom again.
‘She’s asleep. I’m certain she’s asleep.’
‘I won’t waken her,’ Tom promised.
‘You might,’ said Albert.
Tom tried to rise with dignity but the little chair seemed to be glued to his bottom and rose with him, sticking out like some piece of medieval mummery. He struck at it with his elbow, failed to dislodge it and, fearing for his balance, sat down again.
‘I’ll wait,’ he said.
‘Wait?’
‘Until she wakens. Or until you waken her for supper.’
‘Not enough in the pot for four,’ said Florence.
‘I’m not scrounging,’ said Tom. ‘I just want to see that Sylvie’s all right.’
‘Why shouldn’t she be – all right?’ Albert enquired.
‘I don’t know,’ Tom said. ‘I haven’t seen her in months, you know.’
‘She hasn’t changed,’ Florence said.
‘We thought you’d forgotten about her,’ said Albert.
‘Is that what Sylvie thinks too?’ said Tom.
The Piper's Tune Page 16