The river smelled of tidal mud and sewage, tarry, metallic and strong. He tossed away the cigarette, stretched his arms like a man holding up a barbell, and took in a contented breath. He had already decided that he would go to Strathmore and risk committing himself to Cissie. If Lindsay or Forbes McCulloch didn’t like it – too damned bad.
‘Calder. I say, Calder. Stop there, will you?’
George Crush came hopping down the ladder-way. He sported full managerial fig, brown wool three-piece suit, hard collar, even the tight brown bowler that left an angry red mark on his forehead on the rare occasions when he removed it. His moustache was glossy with perspiration, his complexion slightly more mottled than that of a cooked crab.
‘What do you think you’re doing, man?’ George shouted.
In the clotted air of the afternoon his voice was as penetrating as a needle or a knife. Tom stopped, turned: ‘Pardon?’
‘Where do you think you’re going – like that?’
‘I’m out for a breather, George, that’s all.’
‘In that state?’
‘What state?’
‘Half naked.’
‘Half what?’
‘Where’s your jacket? Where’s your hat?’
‘George, for heaven’s sake, it’s touching ninety degrees in the drawing office. God knows what it’s like—’
‘No excuses, no excuses.’
‘Are you feeling all right, George?’
‘This is how it starts,’ the manager shouted. ‘This is how it begins. First it’s water for the men, then it’s managers throwing off their clothes. Next thing you know we’ll have ’Tallies selling ice-cream and bare-naked women waving palm fronds. I’m surprised at you, though, Tom. Fact, I’m disgusted.’
‘George, are you sure you’re all right?’
‘I’ve seen it,’ the manager went on. ‘Oooow, I’ve seen it. I’ve seen governments overturned and blood flow in the streets for less.’
‘What the devil are you going on about?’ Tom asked.
The manic flicker of the eyes steadied. He stepped closer. Tom could feel heat radiating from him, smell the pungent odour of unhealthy sweat. He had often heard the little tyrant raving on before but never like this, never without a rationale. George snorted and poked a forefinger into Tom’s breastbone.
‘Hoy!’ Tom stepped back.
George Crush followed him, pace for pace.
‘Got your leg over, haven’t you, Tom Calder? I’ve heard. I’ve been told. Aye, got your leg over, you cunning bastard. Butter won’t melt in your mouth, aw naw, but it’ll melt on her fanny, won’t it? That’s your plan, that’s your strata— strata – stratagem. Get her on the bed and yourself on the board.’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ Tom said, though he had an inkling that it had something to do with Cissie and his equanimity had already been shaken by the manager’s vehemence. ‘Look, George, I think you should get out of the sun for a while. Come on, I’ll take you up to the office and we’ll ask Hector to take a look at you.’
‘I’m not sick. You’re the one who’s sick, Calder.’ For a split second his accusations seemed almost justified. ‘Swanning about the ’Groveries arm-in-arm. Holding – Christ! – holding hands.’
‘If you mean…’
‘Could you not have taken her some place private?’
‘George, whatever you may have heard, Miss Franklin and I are not—’
‘Fat cow. Fat—’
‘That’s enough!’
‘Forbes, my pal Forbes, keeps me a – abreast of the situation.’
‘What situation?’
‘It’s the same old story, old as the hills. You’ll step into the partnership and I never will.’
‘I thought you said you wouldn’t take a partnership in a gift. You told me it would be against your principles to desert the workers.’
‘Just because I’m not in a position to stick her.’
‘What did you say?’
‘Because I can’t stick it in her.’ Crush manufactured a raspberry, a sound whose crassness shattered Tom’s control completely. ‘Because I can’t give her the old pole. That’s all they ever want from us, all they think we’re good for, these people – the old pole, the old pig-sticker. Well, I wouldn’t waste mine on that fat wee Franklin cow, not if you—’
It was hardly a fight, not even a scrap. The gallery that had gathered on the upper level of the hull were none the less impressed that a dour, long leek of a man like Mr Calder had enough savvy to throw a feint before bringing in the right hand; a neat clip, a short jab and finally an uppercut so perfectly timed that it caught Mr Crush right on the button and by God, wouldn’t you know it, he went down like a half ton of bricks.
Surprised, impressed and delighted, the gallery cheered.
Tom was less surprised, less impressed and by no means delighted.
He caught George by the lapels as the manager swayed and, dipping his knees, dragged him forward and draped him over his shoulder.
George was no light weight and it took Tom a moment to settle the body with boots foremost and bowler to the rear and set off towards the moulding loft where that old sawbones, Hector Garrard, had set up shop. He felt nothing at first then, dimly, he heard cheering. They were cheering him from the rail. An odd little glow stole over him, a unfamiliar sensation that caused him to straighten his spine and, almost jauntily, step out in time to the Sousa march tune that still pumped away in his head. He hoisted George higher, grasped the broad buttocks with one arm, and raised the other hand not in triumph but in acknowledgement of a satisfaction shared.
Five minutes later he unloaded Crush on to a stretcher in the moulding loft and stood back to let Hector Garrard do his work.
The doctor knelt. ‘What happened? Did he fall? Did he strike his head?’
‘No,’ Tom answered. ‘We were just chatting when he suddenly became agitated and began shouting, then – then he fainted. I managed to catch him before he struck the ground.’
‘That’s all?’
‘That’s it,’ Tom said. ‘Is he dead?’
The doctor lifted a lifeless eyelid, felt for the carotid artery, examined poor George’s tongue then, raising a bushy eyebrow, glanced up at Tom.
‘Unfortunately,’ he said, ‘not.’
It was seven weeks before Manager Crush was considered fit to return to work. By that time summer had begun to fade, Baron Yamamoto’s torpedo-boat destroyer was almost ready to be launched, the Great Exhibition had been declared a rousing success.
And Tom Calder and Cissie Franklin, after a brief courtship at Strathmore, had officially announced their engagement.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The Launching Party
‘Look,’ Albert Hartnell said, ‘you might say it’s none of my business but it is, you know. I’m mean I’m her father, more or less, and if I’m not going to look out for her then who is?’
‘Heck of a way you’ve looked out for her so far,’ Forbes said.
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘Parading her in pubs and bars all over town.’
‘She never minded it. She liked it.’
‘Showing off her petticoats.’
‘Oh, now! Come now!’
‘Dancing on tables like a music-hall queen.’
‘Did she tell you that?’ Albert said.
‘I know what you did to her, Bertie,’ Forbes said. ‘The only thing that surprises me is that she doesn’t seem to hate you for it.’
‘What I – what I did? And what’s that, may I ask?’
‘Corrupted her.’
Albert dipped his mouth to the beer tankard, drank, wiped his moustaches with his knuckle, then said, ‘She didn’t need much corrupting, boy, I can tell you. Took to showing off like a duck to water. Took to wrapping men around her finger too. Got that off her mother, I reckon.’
‘Her mother?’
‘Florence’s sister.’
‘I was u
nder the impression that Florence’s sister was a paragon of virtue.’
‘Some paragon!’ said Albert.
‘Devout churchgoer, staunch Christian, that sort of thing?’
‘All front, all face,’ Albert said.
‘You don’t mean to say…’
‘I do mean to say.’
‘Good God!’ Forbes said ruefully. ‘Like mother, like daughter?’
‘In a nutshell, my friend. In a nutshell.’
Albert finished the beer and glanced in the direction of the bar. The new football season had just kicked off and that, together with the attractions of the exhibition, had drained the club of customers. Dice and card tables were deserted and, apart from one listless young country girl, the sofas by the curtain too. Kirby’s was peaceful, quiet and cool. Forbes could think of worse places to spend a Saturday afternoon but he wasn’t yet prepared to forgive Albert for having telephoned him at Harper’s Hill.
‘Is that what you dragged me here to tell me?’ Forbes said.
‘I thought it was time we had a bit of a chat.’
‘How did you get my telephone number?’
‘Asked the exchange. Owen Franklin’s house. Right?’
‘How long have you known where I live?’
Albert tutted and shook his head. He was less cowed than Forbes would have liked him to be. He had something up his sleeve. Forbes had a notion what it might be and was not entirely unprepared to deal with it. He still smarted, though, at the recollection of Albert’s voice coming at him through the earpiece of the instrument in the hallway of Pappy’s house and the realisation that he could not keep the various pieces of his life separate much longer.
‘Months,’ Albert said. ‘Months and months. Since the first.’
‘The first what?’
‘Since you first started making eyes at our Sylvie.’ He glanced around at the bar again and made an ineffectual signal to the barmaid who seemed to have been struck deaf and blind.
‘The first what, Bertie?’
Albert said, ‘You may not have much of an opinion of me, Irish, but I’m not so careless as to let my daughter be wheeled away by a man I know nothing about, not even for an hour or two.’
Forbes drank a mouthful of black stout. ‘Listen, Bertie, I haven’t laid a glove on her.’
‘I know. That’s what she’s complaining about.’
‘She’s complaining? Sylvie’s complaining?’
‘Loud and long.’
‘Jesus!’
‘She’s besotted with you,’ Albert stated. ‘And I want to know what you’re going to do about it.’
‘Do about it?’
‘Are your intentions honourable, or what?’
‘If you mean am I going to marry her then the answer’s no.’
‘I didn’t expect it to be otherwise,’ Albert said, ‘not when you’re hooked up with a nice young lady, a nice wealthy young lady like Lindsay Franklin.’
‘Who the hell told…’
Albert tapped the side of his nose with his forefinger. ‘We knows, you know, Florence and me. Makes it our business to know these things.’
‘Is that why you—’
‘Trusted you?’ Albert said. ‘Of course it is. If you can’t trust a chap who’s practically engaged to one of the Franklins who can you trust? I mean, what would a nice, wealthy young lady like Miss Franklin say if she found out that you’d been squiring another girl to tea at the Imperial?’
‘I’m not marrying Lindsay Franklin for her money,’ Forbes blurted out. ‘I don’t need her money. Damn it, I have money enough of my—’
He bit off the boast, aghast at his own stupidity. He had walked right into it. He blinked at Albert, waiting for the axe to fall, for the fatuous smile, the wink, the setting of terms. Panic possessed him, wave after wave in those few seconds when he realised that he had given himself away, then it receded, rushed away like water from a sluice and suddenly he felt very clearheaded.
‘Bertie,’ Forbes said, ‘are we making a financial arrangement here?’
‘You know,’ said Albert, ‘I do believe we are.’
* * *
The launching of any vessel, no matter how small, is fraught with the possibility of disaster. In the week preceding the arrival of the Japanese Naval Ambassador, Mr Tiroshumi Kimura, his wife, six of his children and several uniformed representatives of the Nipponese Empire, Donald Franklin became very anxious indeed. With two more TBDs under construction and three on the slate, Donald knew how important it was to impress the paymasters.
He also knew what sticklers the Japanese were for protocol and consulted by telephone two commercial shipping agents who gave him the low-down on the sort of ceremony that would appeal to foreigners and advised him to learn a few words of Japanese with which to greet his guests when they stepped off the overnight sleeper from London.
Lindsay had charge of arrangements for the formal luncheon. She plumped for fish, shellfish, pork and a variety of exotic trimmings, such as artichokes, quinces and green plums. She hired a chef and staff from the Barbary to serve lunch for fifty in the mould loft which, as it happened, was the only space big enough to accommodate such a large party.
Pappy Owen, wise fellow, had taken himself off to Strathmore. Without his steadying hand management meetings deteriorated into discussions about whether or not the christening bottle should contain wine, sake or holy water and whether or not the Reverend Brough would be prepared to bless a heathen craft. Mr Kimura solved this problem by indicating that the London party would include – his words – ‘a parson’ and that the Franklins need not worry about offending the gods of the river and the sea, which were just about the last things that Donald was worried about offending.
It was all Arthur could do to keep Donald from blowing a valve, particularly as the Japanese would be three days in Glasgow to tour the Great Exhibition and Donald didn’t think that his ability to bow and scrape would stretch that far. It was all very well for Arthur, Donald declared: all Arthur had to worry about was greasing the standing way and sliding cradle and building the launching platform, tasks that could safely be delegated to the foremen, for, Japanese or not, a boat was a boat and the foremen had the procedure off pat.
According to Tom the acid test would come not with the launch but after the destroyer had been fitted out and armed. Baron Yamamoto had demanded a maximum speed of thirty knots and, Tom said, if Donald thought that the launch party would be difficult to please just wait until he encountered the squadron of Japanese officials who would turn out for the trials.
‘Are you teasing my dear old papa, Tom?’ Cissie asked.
‘No, I’m perfectly serious.’
‘Why is this boat so important?’
‘Because the Japanese have money and are willing to spend it,’ Tom said. ‘There’s a strong rumour going about that their government intends to invest two million in Britain’s shipyards over the next five years.’
‘Yen?’ said Cissie.
‘Pounds,’ said Tom.
‘I’ll have to be nice to them then, I suppose?’
‘That you will, dearest,’ Tom told her. ‘That you will.’
As it happened it was impossible not to be nice to the Japanese. Mr Kimura was a perfect gentleman and he, his wife and each of his six children spoke almost perfect English. He had been a naval attaché in Britain for the best part of ten years before his elevation to Naval Ambassador and had been resident in Dulwich for so long that all his children, even the littlest, behaved more like Westminster choristers than fierce sons of Nippon.
The sun managed to blink through moments before the Franklin brothers ushered the Japanese contingent up the short steep wooden steps to the canvas-draped platform where, hanging from scarlet cords, a bottle of Dom Ruinart champagne rubbed shoulders with a small porcelain flask containing some mysterious liquid that the ‘parson’ had brought along with him. All the Franklins were present, all save Mercy who was four months pregnant and had elected t
o stay at home. Below the platform workmen with mallets waited to knock away the dog-shores as soon as the ship had been blessed and Madam Kimura had done her bit with ribbons and draw-cords.
Across the bow of the Hashitaka hung an odd circular cloth cage of red and white stripes which, a moment after the bottles crumbled against the plate and the ship was released, ripped open to free eight white doves that fluttered away over the heads of the onlookers and circled around the destroyer as she went down the launching way; also a shower of flower petals that drifted like snowflakes over the heads and shoulders of the spectators, an unusual touch that Donald feared would rouse the shipwrights to raucous laughter. Not a bit of it: even the most hardened among them fell silent at the sight, as if they were just as superstitious as the foreigners and believed in a blessing of birds and flowers. The Hashitaka shuddered when her hull struck the water, then, with a dip and lift of her bows, she lunged bravely out into the river to be picked up by the tugs and steered away to Copeland’s fitting-out basin a quarter of a mile away.
Cheering continued. Little Kimuras waved Union Jacks and Rising Suns, one in each hand in respectful equilibrium. Mr Kimura smiled and bowed to the uniforms present as if he, and he alone, had been responsible for seeing the new destroyer safely off to sea. Under cover of the canvas, Cissie sought for Tom Calder’s hand and gave it an affectionate squeeze while, just in front of his daughter, Donald let out his breath and leaning towards his brother murmured, ‘Thank God that’s over.’
‘Hmm,’ Arthur answered. ‘One down and five to go.’
The party assembled in order of precedence and began to file towards the steps, Donald and Arthur bowing and deferring to their guests while in no formal order at all the Franklins and managers fell in behind.
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