‘To train as a Mission worker.’
‘Really! That will suit her very well.’
‘Yes,’ Tom said. ‘I do believe it will.’
‘Did you talk to her before she left?’
‘Unfortunately, no.’
‘She will write to you, will she not?’
‘I expect so,’ Tom said.
‘But she will not be at our wedding?’
‘No.’
‘Tom?’
‘Hmm?’
‘Tom, I can’t say I’m sorry, not actually sorry.’
‘Why?’ he said, then, hugging her arm, added, ‘No, I know why.’
‘Do you?’ Cissie said.
‘I think you just want me for yourself.’
She laughed and lifted her face and let him kiss her on the nose almost without breaking stride. ‘What a conceited pig you are, Tom Calder.’
‘It’s the truth, though, isn’t it?’
‘Of course it is,’ said Cissie. ‘But I’m not telling you that.’
They walked on, Cissie and he, past the concert hall and the bandstand, the Russian village, their heads down, battling together into the rain.
He remembered how it had been in the not-so-old days when Sylvie too had loved him without question; then he thought of her as she had been that Sunday by the fountain before he had sent the postcard from Portsmouth, that afternoon when he had seen Sylvie for what she was, a stranger.
In five weeks’ time he would be married to Cissie Franklin and as secure as a man could ever hope to be, any man who was loved as he was, that is. Cissie would never know that he had almost fallen in love with her cousin Lindsay, that he regretted the putting away of that love, the wistful evocation of what might have been and never would be now. He would not hurt her, could never, ever hurt her. He would pay for her love with loyalty and devotion, would dedicate himself to ensuring that she never found out how it had been with him once, long ago, or that he had chosen her only because she had chosen him.
‘Tom?’
‘What is it, dear?’
‘Look.’
He turned and watched fireworks pouring upwards into the cloud, rockets bursting and a spray of sparks showering down upon the heights of Gilmorehill, showering down and winking out, extinguished prematurely by the rain.
‘Why are they setting them off them tonight, Tom,’ Cissie asked, ‘when there’s nobody here to see them? It seems such a waste.’
‘It’s a demonstration,’ Tom said, ‘a sort of rehearsal, I suppose.’
‘For what?’
‘The big show,’ Tom answered and, suddenly cold, drew her close and hurried her away towards the exit gate.
PART THREE
1906
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
A Marriage of Sorts
The morning song of Harry Forbes McCulloch began earlier each day. Soon, so his grandfather claimed, one end would meet the other and there would be no sleep at all for any them. It was not that young Harry was a crosspatch. He did not shriek to be fed or wail for attention or whine when things did not go his way. He was, in fact, a cheerful wee chap, possessed of such a sunny disposition that it was impossible to believe that the havoc he caused in the Franklin household was not more the fault of those who cared for him than of the child himself.
What Harry was not was a sleeper. He had never been a sleeper. Even as an infant, still on the breast, he had lain gurgling in his cradle or in the huge, barge-like baby carriage that his grandfather had bought for him and had refused, not stubbornly but with winning little smiles, to close an eyelid while there was so much of interest going on around him. Now, aged three, he was not only vocal but mobile and the onset of the morning song would be accompanied by the rattle of the bars of his high-sided crib and the thump of feet as he jumped down to the rug in the nursery and, chanting happily, headed for the top of the stairs.
‘Mammm-eee, Pappp-eee, Grand-eee.’ There was a definite lilt to it, a striving for cadence as if he were already practising to dispense with the spoken word altogether and converse only in song. ‘Papppeeee, Grand-eee. Up, up.’
Bare toes on the lowest rung of the pine-wood gate that Franklin’s carpenters had constructed and Arthur had erected, a gate so stout that it would not have been out of place in a cattle yard, a gate that young Harry had almost mastered and, given another inch of growth and another ounce of strength, would not keep him in his proper place much longer. Bare toes on the rung, fists on the bar, nose – a trifle moist – peeping over the top, he chanted a cheerful greeting to the new day.
Arthur groaned.
Forbes sat up.
Lindsay smiled into her pillow.
Cook eased out of bed with a rueful shake of the head. Maddy, still unmarried, tried to hang on to her dreams by not opening her eyes. And Miss Eleanor Runciman, who did not trust the nursemaid, Winn, even if she was Mr Forbes’s sister, shot out of her room and on to the first-floor landing, muttering, ‘The stairs, the stairs,’ in a voice so deep and tragic that it would have put Sarah Bernhardt to shame.
The housekeeper’s morbid obsession with what might happen on the stairs was not entirely unjustified. Harry was a devil for staircases. He spent many hours, even in chill winter, clambering up and down the funnel of the house, crooning to himself. What was more disturbing – even the imperturbable Winn admitted it – was that he had recently taken to hoisting his baby brother, Philip, from his cradle to introduce to the joys of runners and rods if not yet to vertical fall, though that, Eleanor feared, might be next on the list of Harry’s adventures with gravity.
She ascended rapidly from the first to the second-floor landing and, holding her robe about her, peered up into the January gloom.
A light shone in the nursery. Harry, innocent as a snowball in his fleecy night shirt, had levered his arms on to the top of the gate and rested his chin on his elbows. He looked down at the housekeeper out of chocolate-drop eyes and, breaking off his chant for a moment, said very distinctly, ‘Philip wants a egg.’
‘Where is Aunt McCulloch? Where is Winn?’
‘Philip’s wet again. Why is he always so wet, Miss Runkelman?’
‘Because,’ said Eleanor, ‘he is still a baby.’
‘I’m not a baby.’
Now that she had him in view her concern diminished and with it her severity. It was cold in the upper reaches of the house. She hadn’t paused to put on stockings. Harry, though, seemed quite oblivious to the low temperatures and the fact that dawn was still two hours away. She could make out his little bare toes protruding through the lower rungs, realised that he was supported entirely by his arms, and marvelled at his sturdiness.
Though she had no dominion over the upper floors now and did not even hold keys for that part of the house, she crept further up the staircase.
‘I know you’re not a baby, Harry,’ she said. ‘You are not wet, are you?’
‘Nooo,’ scornfully.
‘Do you need wee-wee?’
‘Done it. Pulled the chain.’
‘Can you reach the chain, Harry?’
‘Stand on the seat.’
‘Of course,’ Eleanor said.
She could hardly believe the rate at which children acquired self-sufficiency these days. Nanny Cheadle had done everything for Lindsay for fully five years before she had allowed the child to tackle things for herself. Now, it seemed, a little boy was expected to contribute to his own welfare and that of his baby brother almost before he could walk. How times change, she thought: how times do change.
‘I think,’ said Harry, ‘Philip ack-tully does want a egg.’
‘Is Philip hungry?’
‘Yes.’
‘Are you hungry too?’
‘Yes.’
‘What is Nanny Winn doing?’
‘Washing Philip.’
‘Do you want to come downstairs, Harry?’
‘That would be very nice, thank you, Miss Runkelman.’
He squirmed and struggled t
o lift himself over the top of the gate. It was just as well that Arthur had designed such an ingenious lock otherwise the boy would probably have worked out the mechanism by now and would have been unstoppable. As it was, in three or four months the gate would not hold him; nothing would hold him.
Harry was such a handsome wee fellow, though, Eleanor could forgive him almost anything. He had his father’s dark colouring, but the shape of his face suggested that he might soon grow to resemble his grandfather. Appearance mattered less than character, however, and Eleanor prayed that he might prove to be more Franklin than McCulloch in this respect.
In the four years since Forbes McCulloch had moved into the house in Brunswick Crescent, Eleanor’s attitude had altered drastically. At first she had been taken in by his charm and, like everyone else in the household, had put herself out to do his bidding, a phase that hadn’t lasted long. The arrival of first one McCulloch sister and then another – Winn following Blossom – had so weakened Eleanor’s authority that she had even been tempted to resign her position. If it hadn’t been for Arthur, who was in this matter more ally than master, then she would have sought other employment.
Gowry McCulloch, the brother, was next to arrive; the smiling, iniquitous brother who, though he did not reside in Brunswick Crescent, was never out of the house and could usually be found lounging in the kitchen chatting to Maddy, drinking tea or, worse, sprawled in the ground-floor drawing-room smoking cigarettes and working his way through his brother’s stock of spirits.
Although he was officially employed by Franklin’s to service, polish and drive the firm’s new Lanchester and keep Donald’s new model Humber in trim, Gowry McCulloch seemed to spend most of his time hanging about the garage in the lane behind the crescent tinkering with Forbes’s bright yellow Vauxhall. He did not have a room in Brunswick Crescent, thank the Lord, but lodged somewhere in the direction of Partick where he returned to catch up on his sleep after a hard day doing, it seemed, very little.
Blossom, Winifred, Gowry: who would be next to arrive from that outpost of the McCulloch clan, Eleanor and Arthur wondered, and why, if Daniel McCulloch was so wealthy and well-connected in the fair city of Dublin did his daughters and son feel the need to export themselves to Scotland and take up positions that were, however you looked at it, menial? Servants they were but also siblings, a combination that, in Eleanor’s experience, did not lend itself to domestic harmony.
In the four years since Lindsay’s marriage to the Dubliner there had been no sign of Forbes’s father, no gifts, no letters, no words of congratulation at the marriage or the birth of the children, no signals of approval at the success Forbes had made of his chosen career.
Kay’s visits to Glasgow had become increasingly frequent and more than made up for lack of paternal interest. She would stay with Donald and Lilias for a few days, then, without so much as a by-your-leave, would appear on the doorstep at Brunswick Crescent. Gowry would lug her baggage up from the motor-car and she would sweep in to occupy the guest-room upstairs with hardly more than a nod to Eleanor or Arthur or even to Lindsay who was just as mystified by the doings of her Irish relations as everyone else: everyone, that is, except Forbes. Forbes remained in control of every situation and, riding high on the crest of a shipbuilding boom, seemed to have more income than he knew what to do with.
Eleanor took another step up the steep staircase.
Harry was straining to cock one leg over the topmost bar. His nightshirt was ruched up around his hips and she glimpsed his miniature parts, already perfectly formed and masculine. She was embarrassed on his behalf and, holding out a hand to catch him lest he should topple over the gate, called out sharply, ‘Winn. Nurse Winn, are you there?’
‘I’m here,’ said a voice behind her. ‘I’m going up in any case.’
Lindsay emerged soundlessly from the door of the bedroom on the second floor. Quietness was her way now, her habit. She moved quietly, spoke quietly, talked to the children in a quiet voice, not so much serious as subdued.
‘Will you feed him in the nursery?’ Eleanor said.
‘Mam-ma, Philip wants a egg.’
‘Yes, dearest. I heard you.’
In a cupboard to the rear of the nursery a little kitchen had been set up. Forbes had insisted that the nursery had its own separate facilities and had designed a system with a cistern and motorised pump that would lift water to the attic floor and allow the installation of a bath and a water closet.
‘Will it not be too cold for him in the nursery?’ Eleanor said.
‘Don’t fuss, please,’ Lindsay told her quietly. ‘I’ll wrap him in the big shawl until the fire is raked and lighted.’ She moved past the housekeeper, let herself through the gate on to the nursery floor and, taking her son by the hand, led him away into the room.
Shivering slightly, Eleanor watched the door close behind them before she turned to come downstairs again. From the bedroom on the landing below came the sound of a yawn, then a cry of, ‘Bloss. Blossom, do you have my tea there?’
Out of the darkness loomed the bulky figure of Blossom McCulloch. Although it was barely six o’clock Forbes’s sister was already dressed for the day in a loose cream-laid blouse and adjustable brown skirt that Mr Arthur said made her look like a lady golfer. Eleanor watched her enter the master bedroom, heard the murmur of Irish voices as sister and brother conversed, then the woman re-emerged and without so much as a glance in Eleanor’s direction lumbered downstairs to the hallway.
In the wintry half-dark she felt quite lost for a second or two. Lost in her own house, indeed? How ridiculous! From the nursery came baby Philip’s cry, a single peevish wail, silenced by the application of Lindsay’s breast.
Ah, how times change, Eleanor thought again, how time does fly, and, pulling herself together, hurried down to the first floor, into her own domain.
* * *
Lindsay did not feel comfortable in the attic nursery but then, if she were honest, she did not feel comfortable anywhere in the house, save possibly in the piano parlour which was where she took herself and the children when Forbes was not at home and she could exert a little bit of authority over Winn and Blossom. There, with Miss Runciman for company, she would play with her sons, released from the feeling that her every move was being observed and would be reported back to Forbes.
Even with her baby pressed to her breast and the sensual rapport that feeding him brought her, she could not entirely shake off a feeling that Philip wasn’t hers at all, that she had merely been allowed to borrow him for a little while as a concession to necessity.
She felt him tug, suck again, rest and sigh.
She gave him only three small feeds a day now. Winn had begun to wean him on sweet milk and saps, which was the way it was done in Ireland, so Winn said. Lindsay had no means of knowing if it were true, for everything Winn told her Blossom or Forbes would, without question, endorse. She could not deny that Philip seemed to be thriving, though he was as unlike his brother as it was possible to be, fair-haired and slight, and so passive that there had been times when Lindsay, in fits of panic, had wondered if he were quite right in the head.
Aunt Kay had assured her that Forbes had been just the same at that age, quiet and untroublesome, inclined to sleep the clock round. Lindsay was not consoled and after her mother-in-law had returned to Ireland she had asked Dr Hough to call and examine Philip, which the doctor duly did. He had assured her that the infant was perfectly normal, that maternal anxiety was a common postnatal condition, and had prescribed a mild sedative to soothe her nerves.
She had never had any worry with Harry. Her first-born had flopped out into the world after seven hours of labour and had been a joy to her from the start. Philip, though, had been a fortnight overdue, seemed reluctant to be born at all and had kept her in labour for twenty-nine hours. Since that ordeal she had not been herself, had felt cut off from what went on around her and disinclined to engage with anyone or anything.
Aunt Lilias had advised
her to ask Forbes to take her away for a breath of sea air or to Strathmore for a week or two, with the children but sans servants. Forbes, however, had declared that he was too busy to go anywhere that summer and had refused point blank to let her travel to Strathmore with Cissie, Tom and their small son. Travelling, Forbes said, was bad for nursing mothers.
Forbes reminded her that she was ill, and she believed him. Forbes told her that she was exhausted, and she did not doubt it. Forbes informed her that the best thing she could do was to let Winn take care of the children and rest as much as possible; without question Lindsay did just that. He also told her that in her own best interests, and to speed her recovery, he would refrain from intercourse, for, he said, it wasn’t proper for a woman in her debilitated condition to enjoy sexual relations. Finally, he forbade her to attend management meetings or take any active interest in the business of the yard. This she found easy to do, for during her pregnancies she had lost contact with Franklin’s affairs and after Philip’s birth had retreated into a quiet, sullen world of her own, a world dominated by her children and her husband.
‘I’m thinking,’ Winn said, ‘that he has had enough.’
‘He’s only resting.’
‘It’s you that should be resting. I’ll walk him to bring up the wind.’
Lindsay had been nursing her son for less than ten minutes. In that time Winn had raked out the fire, transferred ashes to a bucket for Maddy to collect and, with Harry kneeling at her side, had reconstructed the fire with kindling and small coals and brought flame to the fore by pumping the ornamental bellows. Harry would love to experiment with the bellows but was forbidden to go near the fire or touch any of the hearth utensils.
Winn had put up the iron fireguard, had filled a basin from the tap in the kitchen, had washed her hands and Harry’s face, had dressed the boy in warm woollens and pantaloons; had lighted the gas stove, filled a pan and put two eggs to boil in it, then, almost casually, had set the nursery table for breakfast. She rubbed her palms on her pinafore and held out her arms.
‘Give him here to me,’ she said.
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