‘Dada says you’re going to look after us.’
Forbes waved his hand, shaping a circle in the air. ‘Is this not looking after you, sweetheart?’
‘Care for me.’
‘Care for you? God, Sylvie, don’t you know I love you?’
‘And I love you.’
He experienced a tremor of annoyance at the wan, matter-of-fact manner in which she accepted what was being given her. Had Bertie not told her what this place was costing every month? Did she not realise that a girl in her position could hardly expect to do better, that there were thousands of young women who would have been overjoyed to be brought to live in a brand-new, well-furnished apartment, thousands of young women who would have been delighted to have him for a lover on any sort of terms? Irritation brought a surge of sexual longing in its wake.
All he had to do was look at her, not listen, just look at the colour of her eyes, the curve of her lips, her satin skin. How many other girls could claim that they were desired with such unreasonable intensity? On impulse he kissed her and inserted his tongue into her mouth. He fumbled at his trousers, released himself, let her see how urgently he needed her attentions. He was not obliged to pay homage to her refined sensibilities; unlike Cissie, unlike Lindsay, she carried no weight of prudence or, he had discovered, of modesty.
She would do anything he wished her to do.
Provided he loved her.
Holding her against him, rocking against her, he said, ‘Now look, I have to know, dearest. Is this it? Is this the place for you? If it’s not…’
‘What? You’ll find another?’ Sylvie said. ‘Ah-hah, ah-hah.’ She wagged a finger in his face. ‘You will never find another like me, though, will you?’
‘That’s true.’
‘Will you, Forbes?’
‘No, damn it. Never,’ he told her. ‘Do you like it here?’
‘Ye-eees.’
‘Will you be happy?’
‘Will I make you happy?’
‘Sylvie, please answer me. Will you be happy here?’
‘Perfectly so,’ she said, then, still dressed in coat and bonnet and wearing her grey suede gloves, she knelt before him like a slave.
* * *
Albert opened the door. Bleary-eyed, haggard and unshaven, he was clad in a nightshirt, bedsocks and a greasy old overcoat in lieu of a dressing-gown. He looked, Tom thought, absolutely terrible. He managed a smile, though, and signalled Tom to follow him into the kitchen.
To Tom’s dismay he found that the room had been stripped of every stick of furniture. God knows, it had been bleak enough in Florence’s day but now, with even the linoleum peeled away, it was nothing but rough floorboards and bare walls. Albert ate soup not from a bowl at the table – there was no table – but directly from a blackened pot upon the side of the stove. A crust of bread and a bottle of milk stout made up the elements of his supper.
‘Can’t offer you much, old son,’ Albert said. ‘Share my stout with you if you like.’
‘So it’s true,’ Tom said. ‘She has gone.’
‘Ah, yes. You got the letter. She said she would write to you before she departed but I wasn’t certain she would do it. You know what she’s like, a wee darlin’ most of the time but with a mind of her own when it suits her.’
‘I received the letter this morning,’ Tom said. ‘I came as soon as I could. I didn’t expect her to be gone already.’
‘Got the offer. Took the chance.’
‘Abandoned you?’
‘Oh, no, no. I urged her, I pressed her to go.’
‘When did she leave?’
‘Yesterday forenoon. I took her to the railway station myself.’ Albert rested one foot on the guard rail of the stove and dipped a spoon into the broth pot. ‘Shed a tear too, I may tell you, to see her going off like that, all on her own, clutching her little bag. Florence…’ He swallowed, wiped his moustache with a knuckle. ‘Florence – ah, well, you know how it is, Tom, you know how it is to lose a wife when you least expect it.’
Tom looked around for somewhere to sit and finally propped himself against the sink. He glanced round, frowning; even Florence’s scrubbing brushes were gone.
‘What happened to everything?’ he said.
‘Sold.’
‘All of it?’
‘Except for some of the clothes. I kept some of the clothes.’
‘Are things that desperate, Albert?’
‘Not desperate, no. I just wanted rid of the stuff. I wasn’t going to give it away, was I? Florence would have turned in her grave, bless her, if I’d just given it away. Sold it down Paddy’s market. Price’ – he shrugged – ‘reasonable.’
‘What about Sylvie’s wardrobe?’
‘Sold it too. Furniture fetches.’
‘I mean her dresses, her shoes,’ Tom said.
‘She took them with her.’
‘All of them?’
‘I got some to post off later.’
‘Why didn’t you tell me what was happening?’ Tom said. ‘If you needed money for her railway train fare or her lodging then I—’
‘You’ve done enough,’ Albert said. ‘More than enough.’ He paused. ‘Besides, you’ll be needing all your hard-earned once you’ve got a wife to support and a house to look after.’
He ate soup noisily, his back to Tom.
Tom said, ‘I suppose Sylvie spotted the engagement announcement in the Glasgow Herald?’
‘I expect that’s it,’ Albert said.
Tom said, ‘Is that why she accepted the post with the Coral Strand?’
‘Uh?’
‘Was she offended because I intend to marry again?’
‘She didn’t say much about that,’ Albert said. ‘She misses her mama. She wants to do right by her mama. When the position in London was offered, she jumped at it. She always had it in mind to work for the Mission, you know. I was never all that for it, but her mama was. Her mama would have done anything for the Coral Strand. Now, God rest her, she has given up her daughter to God’s cause.’
‘So my engagement to Miss Franklin…’
‘She isn’t bitter, Sylvie. She’d have wished you well. She did, in fact. She did wish you well. Last thing she said to me before she left: “Tell Papa I wish him well.” Last words to me at the railway station.’
‘Who offered her the position?’
‘Mr Chappell.’
‘May I see the letter?’ Tom said.
Albert pushed the soup pot aside. ‘What letter?’
‘From Mr Chappell.’
‘I think Sylvie took it with her. Had an address on it, yes.’
‘What address?’
‘An address in London.’
‘Albert, are you lying to me?’
‘No, Tom, I ain’t lying.’ He wiped his moustache again and, with a little grunt of resignation, dug his hands into his overcoat pockets. ‘She don’t want you to have it.’
‘I don’t believe you.’
‘It’s true, I swear,’ Albert said. ‘I told her, I said, “Your papa’s going to want to know all about what’s happening to you, how it’s working out for you in London.” And she said, “No, he has done enough for me. He has his own life to lead now and a new wife to look out for. I will not have him burdened. I am going to do God’s work and God will look after me.”’
‘Sylvie said that?’
‘Her exact words. Didn’t she hint as much in her letter?’
‘No.’
‘She ain’t yours no longer, Tom. She ain’t mine either. She’s gone off to do the work she was trained for, was born for, you might say.’
‘Will she be sent to the foreign field?’
‘I don’t know, do I?’ Albert said. ‘After her training, perhaps.’
‘Where is she staying in London?’
‘In the Coral Strand’s hostel in Holborn.’
‘Does she pay to lodge there?’
‘No, not while she’s under training.’
Tom nodded
. He was filled with guilt: guilt kept doubt at bay. He wanted desperately to see his daughter again, to talk with her, to be assured that it was not his marriage that had driven her away, had precipitated her into a career that seemed unsuited to such a delicate wee thing. He had been to Africa, if not the Islands, and he knew how bad the tropics could be, how dangerous, how unhealthy, and suspected that his daughter’s illusions would soon be shattered and her heart broken by the work.
He was gripped by terrible emptiness, a fear that had no base or bottom but that seemed to go down and down inside him, like a pit shaft. He felt bleak, as bleak as Albert looked. He crossed his arms over his chest, closed his fists on his shoulders and drew in a shuddering breath.
Albert said, ‘It’s what she wants, Tom. It’s what’ll make her happy.’
‘And you, how will you manage without her?’
‘I’ll make out somehow.’
‘This Mr Chappell, didn’t he offer you a position in London?’
‘He did not,’ Albert said. ‘I expect I might go there, though, to London. Might find something to keep body and soul together. Work for the Mission on a voluntary basis just like I did here. Be near to Sylvie, case she needs me.’
‘You’re not – can’t you stay here?’
Albert tugged his hands from the overcoat pockets. Thrust out by his massive belly, the nightshirt protruded before him. His shins, Tom noticed, were as hairy as his forearms.
‘How can I?’ Albert declared. ‘How can I stay here when all there are is memories, everywhere, memories? I’ve lost them both, Tom, and there’s nothing left for it but to start out somewhere new. Somewhere cheap.’
‘Don’t you have work, a job?’
‘You know I don’t.’
‘Albert, are you broke?’
‘I’m not asking for nothing. You don’t owe me a penny, Tom Calder. You done well by our lass and for that Florence and me were eternally grateful. But it was my pleasure, my privilege I mean, to share what I had with Sylvie. Now it’s over and all I have left – well, you know how it is? You done all right. You stuck with your career and you’ve earned your reward. Marry your young lady, I say, and be happy. I’ve had my high days, Tom, my days in the sun. Don’t you fret about me. I’ll be all right, right as bloomin’ rain, old Albert.’
‘If it’s work, perhaps I can find you some…’
‘No!’ Albert jerked his head. ‘No, that would never do. You’ve got your own life to lead and you don’t want no rusty anchor holding you down.’
‘When do you have to leave here?’
‘Tomorrow.’
Tom nodded. He slipped a hand into his vest pocket. He had taken the notes from the reserve that he kept in a cash-box in a locked drawer in his room at the Queensview. He had thought that he would find Sylvie still here, had, in all honesty, expected to find her with her hand out. But she had taken her own direction, had selected her own destiny. Nothing he could do about it. No more could he give her. Perhaps in a week or two he might write to Mr Chappell at the Coral Strand’s London headquarters and send a donation in Sylvie’s name.
Meanwhile he brought the three ten pound banknotes from his pocket, hesitated, then, extending his hand, offered them to Albert.
‘I can’t leave you like this,’ Tom said. ‘Let me help.’
‘No, Tom. No. I still got my pride.’
‘Please take it. For my sake.’
‘I – I can’t.’
‘For Sylvie’s sake then.’
Albert started down at the floorboards.
Tom said, ‘Sylvie wouldn’t want to see you stranded.’
He sighed, a little roar. ‘You’re right, of course. Sylvie would want me to have it. She would be charitable. When I write to her I’ll tell her what you’ve done, how kind you’ve been.’
‘When will you write to her?’
‘When I’m settled.’
‘Will you also let me know where you are, Albert?’
‘If that’s your wish.’
‘It is.’
He came forward, wrapped an arm about Tom and hugged him briefly. ‘You’re a good man, Tom Calder,’ Albert muttered. ‘A damned good man. God knows, you done the best you could. I wish you a marriage as happy as my own.’
They shook hands.
‘Albert.’
‘Uh?’
‘When you’re in touch, tell Sylvie I’m here if ever she needs me.’
‘I will, Tom,’ Albert Hartnell said. ‘Rest assured, I will.’
* * *
He let himself in with the copy of McCulloch’s latchkey that he’d had made in a cobbler’s shop on the Maryhill Road late yesterday evening. He entered the hall and, groping, found the electrical light switch, then he called out, ‘It’s only me, dearest. It’s only Dada. Where are you?’
‘In here.’
He followed her voice into the largest of the three bedrooms and found her propped up in bed. She was clad in a fancy nightdress with puffy sleeves and did not bother to cover herself when he entered. She had taken the ribbons from her hair and, with the rays of an electrical lamp around her, seemed to be burnished in light gold leaf. Through the fabric of the gown he could make out the protrusions of her breasts and he thought how lucky a man McCulloch was to have this treasure all to himself.
She was reading, not a novel but a textbook, a big blue clothbound tome with a Roman gentleman in a toga gilt-stamped on the front. Her eyes were not grey tonight but dark and slaty and she looked, Albert thought, weary and more in need of sleep than education.
He went to the bed and seated himself upon it.
She looked up from the book. ‘Did Papa come?’
‘He did.’
‘Did he receive my letter?’
‘Indeed, he did.’
‘Did he swallow the story?’
‘Yes, swallowed it in one gulp.’
‘How much?’ Sylvie said.
‘Twenty quid. Under the circumstances I didn’t feel it wise to push.’
She placed a forefinger in the book to mark her place and held out her hand. ‘Give it here, please.’
‘I thought I would put it into the bank first thing tomorrow.’
‘Here.’
He laid the notes, still folded, across her palm and watched her fingers close on them. She obviously knew that he had diddled her and he waited for a reprimand, an argument. She seemed satisfied with the sum her papa had given her, though, the parting gift that would separate them once and for all.
‘Did Forbes…’ Albert began.
‘Yes. He came. He brought me.’
Albert risked brushing a lock of hair from her brow.
‘Goodnight, Dada,’ Sylvie said pointedly.
‘Goodnight, dear,’ Albert said, and kissed her cheek.
He rose reluctantly and took himself to the door. It was a fine apartment but still strange and he was still lost in it. His bedroom, at one remove from Sylvie’s, was small but comfortable. It had a single brass bedstead, a high-boy, a dressing-table and a washstand. It did not have Florence in it, though, and at this lonely hour of the night he missed his wife more than he cared to admit, not only for her company but for the fact that she, and she alone, had kept Sylvie from overwhelming him.
He paused in the doorway on the edge of the vast hall with its tick-tocking clock and fleshy pot plant, its gigantic hat-stand and oval mirror. He looked at his foster-daughter, Tom Calder’s child, more beautiful now than pretty, her pert little chin raised, her slate grey eyes fixed grudgingly upon him.
‘What is it, Albert?’ Sylvie enquired. ‘What do you want now?’
‘Have you said your prayers yet?’
‘Not yet.’
‘When you do…’
‘What?’
‘Put in a word for me,’ said Albert.
* * *
It seemed to Cissie that the Great Exhibition had gone on for ever, that when it closed not just the summer of 1901 but her youth would close with it, vanishing in
to memory like the bands and fireworks, the water-splash and gondolas, switched off like the sweeping beam of the Schuckert searchlight that flashed over every corner of the site and even penetrated the velvet draperies of the mansions on Park Circus and the corner of Harper’s Hill.
Since August the ’Groveries had been illuminated after dusk but now the rains had arrived, the winter rains, and the lights had a bleary shimmer that indicated an imminent return to melancholy reality for the city and its citizens.
Closing-night looting was anticipated. The police would be out in force to check the stampede of souvenir hunters. Tom and Cissie had decided that they would forgo the last-night concert and tuck themselves away from the festivities. To make up for it, however, Tom had invited her to dine in the Royal Bungalow four days before the gates were finally locked.
It was already cold and Cissie wore furs, lisle stockings and Russian boots to walk down from the Hill into the park. In the elegant cloakroom of the Bungalow she changed into the dress and shoes that she had carried with her in a waterproof bag and joined Tom at a table by the window. Rain poured from the restaurant’s slanted eaves and the wind blew stridently across the river, making the boats dip on their mooring ropes and whipping the water about the weir. Wild weather was not without its excitement, however, and when they had finished eating and had drunk a bottle of wine between them, they went out for a last tour of the glistening piazzas and leafless walkways lit by swaying lanterns and the broad, ethereal beam of the Schuckert.
Cissie was snug enough inside her furs and Mica hood but Tom, carrying her shoe bag over his shoulder like a knapsack, was soon soaked. He was not dismayed by the discomfort, though, or too cold to enjoy their last parade before the Great Exhibition was diligently packed away. He kissed Cissie under the boughs of the chestnut trees and, because there were few folk around, kissed her again in the centre of the main piazza, his legs spread and braced like a mountaineer’s against the swirling wind, his lips wet against her wet cheeks, both so wet and so exhilarated that they laughed and, with arms linked, set off for the gate that would lead them home.
As they strode along arm in arm, Tom said, ‘My daughter has gone to London, by the way.’
‘Has she?’ said Cissie brightly.
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