‘Oh, no,’ said Florence calmly. ‘She’s a real pet lamb, our Sylvie. She goes her own way and gets on with her own life.’
‘In the service of others,’ said Albert.
‘Yes,’ Florence said. ‘In the service of others.’
‘She finishes her schooling soon, doesn’t she?’ Tom said.
‘In July, yes,’ said Florence.
‘What will she do then? College, perhaps?’
‘She’s a girl,’ said Albert.
‘Some girls do go to college these days,’ said Tom. ‘If it’s a matter of cash, I don’t mind paying for her to learn how to utilise a typewriting machine, or some other skill for that matter.’
‘Park School girls do not become stenographers,’ said Florence.
‘Don’t they?’ said Tom.
‘In any case,’ said Albert, ‘she wants to be a missionary.’
‘A medical missionary?’ said Tom, surprised.
‘She ain’t clever enough for medicine, alas,’ said Albert. ‘Knows her own limitations, does our wee sweetheart. No, she has her heart set on working on the home front for the Coral Strand. She’ll do the training course, like I did.’
‘You didn’t,’ Florence reminded him. ‘I did.’
‘Same thing, dearest,’ said Albert. ‘However, working for the Coral Strand is what our Sylvie has set her heart on.’
‘You won’t stand in her way, will you, Tom?’ said Florence.
‘No, probably not,’ Tom said. ‘I’d like to find out more about it, though.’
‘More about what?’ said Albert.
‘This organisation: the Coral Strand. What precisely is it? What does it do with its funds? Where are its offices and what training will Sylvie receive?’
Florence glanced at her husband who raised a weak eyebrow.
Florence said, ‘We can answer all your questions, Tom.’
‘Quite right and proper, quite natural for you to ask,’ said Albert magnanimously. ‘Got the papers handy, dearest?’
‘Not just to hand.’ Florence paused. ‘Next time you come, Tom, I’ll have them all laid out for your inspection. Meanwhile, to save you hanging on, I’ll slip through to the room and see if she’s awake yet.’ Florence smiled. ‘If she’s not you can have a little peep at her, Tom. Would that not be nice?’
‘Yes,’ Tom said. ‘That would be very nice. Thank you.’
‘No thanks necessary,’ Albert said, and like a true gentleman rose to open the door for his wife.
* * *
She lay with her head on a silk pillow, one small fist curled against her cheek. Her hair was spread about her head and babyish perspiration dewed her upper lip. She wore nothing but a shift. Tom could see the outline of her breasts against the cambric, the nipples curiously elongated. She looked, he thought, slightly flushed but not unhealthy. He was embarrassed to be hovering over her while she slept, unaware that she was being observed, but the fact was that he preferred her asleep to wide awake.
The net curtain over the window was too flimsy to filter out the evening light and he could make out Sylvie’s clothes folded over a high chair, drawers, stockings, an embroidered garter of which the staff of the Park School would certainly not approve. On the mantel above the fireplace two plaster-cast bookends held a dozen books in line; two little black boys knelt in prayer, foreheads pressed to Latin primers and English grammars as if to acquire knowledge by osmosis. There were no other ornaments in the narrow bedroom, not even functional objects like a mirror or a candlestick and the only furnishings were a dressing-table and a head-high tallboy.
Sylvie sighed, opening one hand and closing it again.
‘Aw, she’s dreaming,’ Albert whispered. ‘Sweet dreams, dearest.’
‘Have you seen enough, Tom?’ Florence murmured from the doorway. ‘It’s just flushing, quite natural in a girl of her age.’
‘Yes.’ Tom eased himself out of the alcove. He had seen enough, more than enough. It was the first time that he had observed his daughter’s slumbers since her infancy, and somehow he wished he hadn’t.
‘I’ll tell her you called, shall I?’ said Florence.
‘Please do,’ said Tom, and left.
* * *
Arthur Franklin had nothing against marriage between cousins. The upper brackets of the shipping industry were full of such unions, encouraged to protect the closed nature of family firms and keep predators firmly beyond the pale. Arthur was willing to concede that Forbes McCulloch would probably wind up as his son-in-law but until that day came he was determined that Forbes would not be given the run of the house.
He entered the hall cautiously, handed hat and overcoat to Eleanor Runciman and peeked at the door that led to the drawing-room.
‘Is he still here?’
‘No, sir. He’s gone.’
‘He was here, though?’
‘Yes, most of the afternoon and much of the evening.’
‘I guessed as much,’ Arthur said. ‘When neither Lindsay nor he showed up at Harper’s Hill for dinner I thought they’d be here.’
‘I provided him with dinner.’
‘Did you indeed?’
‘I assumed that you had gone back with your brother,’ Eleanor said, ‘and that there would be meat to spare here.’
Arthur hesitated, then, still buoyant with the pleasures of the afternoon, headed for the parlour.
‘Eleanor, gin or brandy?’
‘Brandy, if you please.’
A late evening tête-à-tête had become part of the pattern in Brunswick Crescent. Arthur liked to have someone to talk to at the end of the day. Now that Lindsay was growing away from him he depended increasingly upon the housekeeper to provide him with company and, when required, advice. He did not, of course, take advantage of their intimacy and Eleanor was far too respectful to impose upon their close relationship.
‘Did you dine with them?’ Arthur said.
‘Of course.’
‘Any plans discussed?’
‘What sort of plans?’
‘Matrimonial plans.’
‘Not in front of me,’ Eleanor said.
‘Pappy declares they’ll marry before the year’s out.’
‘Do you have no say in the matter?’
‘It seems not,’ Arthur said. ‘It seems I’m just expected to conform.’
‘You could surprise them.’
‘Could I? How?’
‘Give them your blessing.’
Arthur was seated in an armchair, she on the sofa.
He said, ‘You rather like the Irish cousin, don’t you?’
‘I see no harm in him.’
Arthur smiled. ‘Because he’s a handsome young devil, eh? Does he remind you of that chap from Cork?’
‘Chap from … Oh!’ Eleanor almost blushed. ‘How did you hear about the chap from Cork?’
‘You’ve told the tale to Lindsay so often it would be a miracle if I hadn’t heard it. I’m not deaf, you know,’ Arthur said. ‘Fiancé, was he?’
‘No, not – not quite, sir.’
‘Not good enough for you, eh?’
‘Rather the other way around, I fear.’
‘How long ago was this near-run thing?’
‘Years and years ago. Too many to count.’
‘Why do women have such a soft spot for Irishmen?’ Arthur sat back and unloosed his collar and cuff links. Eleanor held his whisky glass while he did so. ‘I mean, is it the gift of the gab or the brooding looks or the elfin charm? Damned if I can see the attraction.’
‘I think’ – Eleanor gave him back the glass, fitting it carefully into his outstretched hand – ‘I honestly think it’s the charm.’
‘Skin deep.’
‘That’s as may be,’ Eleanor said. ‘Better skin deep than not at all.’
‘Don’t the Scots have charm?’
‘Some do, some don’t.’
‘Aren’t I charming enough?’
‘At times, sir, yes – fairly.’
&nb
sp; Arthur shook his head ruefully. ‘Damned with faint praise.’
‘It isn’t charm that makes a marriage.’
‘Really? What is it then?’
‘Mutual respect.’
‘Try telling that to two young people who fancy themselves in love.’
‘I would not dare,’ said Eleanor.
She had gauged his mood at last. He wasn’t really fretting about Forbes McCulloch. The great lift of voices that had filled St Andrew’s Halls that afternoon had lifted his spirits. For a time, she thought, he had soared above pettiness while Donald and he, and two or three hundred other singing souls, had shared in musical communion. She wished sometimes that she had a voice that could soar and that she might share that exquisite pleasure with him.
She said, ‘Is there no one for you, sir?’
‘No one? What do you mean, Eleanor?’
‘I mean…’
Arthur laughed, a little uncomfortably. ‘Ah, so you’re still dwelling on the fellow from Cork, are you? Lost opportunities, and all that?’
‘I was thinking of your welfare, your happiness.’
‘I’m happy enough with things as they stand.’
‘And after Lindsay goes?’
‘She won’t be far away. McCulloch has his work…’
‘She need not go at all,’ said Eleanor.
‘Hmmm?’
‘They could live here with us. With you, I mean.’
‘So,’ Arthur said, still not riled. ‘So that’s what’s on my darling daughter’s mind, is it? Did she ask you to sound me out?’
‘I think it’s only a vague suggestion.’
‘Lindsay’s idea, or McCulloch’s?’
‘It is a very large house for a single gentleman to occupy,’ Eleanor said.
‘I might consider moving.’
‘Do you wish to move?’
‘No,’ Arthur said. ‘But I think I’d prefer moving to sharing.’
‘It would be a simple thing to arrange,’ Eleanor said. ‘The couple could have the entire upper floor and use the drawingroom for their parlour.’
‘Where would you go?’
‘I could take the little bedroom on the second floor, next to Nanny.’
‘Cramped, very cramped,’ said Arthur.
Eleanor paused. ‘Nanny may not be with us for much longer.’
Arthur sighed. ‘That’s true.’
‘It is, of course, only a vague suggestion.’
She watched him swirl whisky in his glass. He put the glass on the carpet at his feet, crossed one knee over the other and tugged at his earlobe.
‘Did Lindsay put you up to this?’ he asked.
‘I don’t think she’s frightfully keen to leave you.’
‘Leave me?’ Arthur said.
‘She worries about your future.’
‘Good God! I’m not in my dotage yet, you know.’
‘She thinks you might be lonely.’
Arthur picked up the glass again. ‘Did she actually say that?’
‘Not in so many words, no.’
‘Ah, but you know her too well to be fooled, Eleanor.’
‘I’ve known her most of her life,’ Eleanor said.
She was hedging his questions skilfully so far and felt rather pleased with her deviousness. The ‘suggestion’ hadn’t come from Lindsay but from young Mr McCulloch who had enlisted her help when Lindsay was out of the room.
‘I’m not surprised that McCulloch wants to plunge helter-skelter into matrimony,’ Arthur said. ‘I expect he’ll want to take on a house of his own too.’
‘I think,’ Eleanor said, ‘that the young man may be more sensible than you give him credit for, sir.’
‘Well, he certainly isn’t short of a shilling or two,’ Arthur said. ‘At least he won’t be when he reaches his majority.’
‘Floating capital,’ Eleanor said, ‘looking for a berth?’
‘Perhaps I should offer to sell McCulloch this place and look out for something smaller and more suitable to my needs.’
This was precisely what Forbes McCulloch had warned her against.
‘I would not be able to accompany you, sir,’ Eleanor said.
‘What? Why ever not?’
‘I am unmarried.’
‘You’re unmarried now and nobody gives a fig.’
‘There is, or was, a child in the house.’
‘And that’s all that respectability requires, is it?’
‘Do you remember the sensation when Mr Fingleton employed a young housekeeper? What talk there was about that?’
‘Malicious gossip,’ Arthur said. ‘Nobody could ever prove that he was sleeping – that the young woman was anything other than she appeared to be. Besides, Ronald Fingleton was a notorious old rake and she was such a pretty young thing. No, no, no. There’s no comparison.’
‘Even so…’ said Eleanor, and let it hang.
Arthur sighed again and finished his whisky.
He was settled in now and would keep her talking for a good hour or more. She had laid out the hand, had planted the notion that he might lose her as well as his daughter and, with luck and a little manipulation in the course of conversation, she might discover just how much he valued her.
‘If this does come to pass,’ Arthur said, ‘he’ll have to pay his way.’
‘From what you’ve told me, sir, that would not be a problem.’
‘No, I don’t suppose it would,’ Arthur conceded. ‘It wouldn’t take much to convert this barn into two separate establishments. What’s up there? Five apartments?’
‘Yes, five.’
‘I’m not giving up my study.’
‘Lindsay would not expect you to.’
‘You have discussed this with her, haven’t you, Eleanor?’
‘In a general way, sir, yes.’
‘Well, if McCulloch does move into my house after marriage there’s one thing I would insist upon.’
‘No dogs?’ said Eleanor.
‘No mother-in-law,’ said Arthur.
* * *
Lindsay had never known what it was like to be other than prosperous. She accepted her position in society with the equanimity that is the birthright of all middle-class children. Money, like time, had had no real significance for her.
‘Live here?’ she said. ‘Papa would never stand for it.’
‘For a time, a year or two, while Forbes – your husband – establishes himself,’ Miss Runciman said. ‘Did I not hear you discuss some such thing with him yesterday afternoon?’
‘Did you? No, I think you’re mistaken,’ Lindsay said hesitantly.
‘Ah, in that case…’
‘Well, perhaps we did,’ said Lindsay, frowning.
She had been half asleep yesterday, particularly in the hour before dinner. She was under the impression that Forbes had been going on about the state of the war, particularly de Wet’s invasion of Cape Colony, details of which had just appeared in The Times. She had her own views about the war in South Africa but she did not have the temerity to argue her case with Forbes. Something less distant might have been said in the course of the evening, however. She tried to recapture the ebb and flow of the conversations that had marked out the dreary Sunday: some talk of money, much talk of marriage, a brief interlude of kissing – then what? She could not for the life of her recall.
‘I rather received the impression that you and Forbes were in agreement,’ Eleanor Runciman said.
‘About what?’
‘Marrying and coming to live here.’
‘Oh, did he say that? I mean, did I agree?’
‘I seem to remember,’ Eleanor went on, casually rather than cautiously, ‘that when Forbes said it might be an acceptable means of persuading your father that you aren’t too young to marry…’
‘Yes?’
‘You agreed with him.’
‘In that case,’ said Lindsay, ‘I suppose I must have. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I really must dash. I’m meeting Aunt Lilias in town at
noon.’
‘Shopping?’
‘Lunching. Uncle Donald’s off somewhere working on a tender and my aunt’s feeling a little bit out in the cold.’
‘Poor soul,’ Miss Runciman said tactfully, and tactfully said no more.
* * *
‘Are you rich?’ Sylvie asked.
‘What makes you think that?’
‘Because you bring me here.’
Forbes looked round. It hadn’t occurred to him that the lounge of the Imperial Hotel in North Street was a particular haunt of the wealthy.
‘I bring you here because it’s convenient,’ Forbes said.
He was drinking tea in an effort to create the impression that Sylvie was his sister. But there was no deceiving the sly-eyed waiters who lurked behind the varnished pillars and palm fronds of the so-called orchestral lounge which, if Sylvie had but known it, had only slightly more class than the average Dublin knocking-shop. Three elderly ladies scraping away on stringed instruments to a piano accompaniment did not cloak the fact that the Imperial’s rooms could be rented if not by the hour at least by the half day and that very few of the couples supping on oysters and champagne in the dining-room were married, at least not to each other.
‘I don’t tell Dada that we come here,’ Sylvie said.
‘What do you tell Dada?’
‘That you take me to Miss Cranston’s.’
She wasn’t as daft as she seemed, Forbes realised. Her naïveté must be superficial. He, a Dubliner, had learned long ago how to differentiate between innocence and experience. If he had been her brother he would have taken her to Miss Cranston’s Tearooms which was so respectable that one almost expected the table legs still to have rufflettes around them. At least she, Sylvie, had got that right. He was beginning to wonder what sort of an education she had received from wily old Albert, her dada.
Forbes wondered many things about Sylvie Hartnell, not least what she would look like with her clothes off and if that fine, flawless skin would be soft to the touch and if her honeysuckle sweetness would translate into compliance, even complicity, once the barrier between them had been broken.
He felt a soft chug of desire in his belly, a stirring below. He was tempted to try to take her there and then, to persuade her to go upstairs with him. He had just enough cash in his pocketbook to spring for the bridal suite. But, no, it was too soon, too premature. Albert would go haywire if he did not return her within the hour, delivered safe, sound and intact to the door in the lane around the corner from Kirby’s. Besides, he could not be sure that she would be willing, if she would understand what it meant to be willing and what he would do to her if she was. He needed to be patient, to exercise cunning, to play the long game just as he had done with Lindsay, albeit to quite another end.
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