‘I suppose that’s true,’ Arthur said. ‘He isn’t leaving with you, I take it?’
‘Forbes leave? This is his home,’ Kay said. ‘It may no longer be his wife’s home but it is his home and it will remain so unless you take it into your head to throw him out, too.’
‘Kay, I am not asking you to leave,’ Arthur said, with a sigh. ‘In fact, I thought you might prefer to stay on and offer your support.’
‘Support, support to whom?’
‘Your son,’ said Eleanor.
‘This woman,’ Kay said peevishly, ‘should not be here while we discuss our private business.’
‘Stay where you are, Eleanor,’ Arthur said. ‘I may be in need of your advice in a moment or two.’
‘Advice about what?’ said Kay.
‘How to proceed,’ said Arthur.
‘Proceed?’
‘It seems clear,’ Arthur said, ‘that you are leaving because you do not wish to be involved in any sort of scandal.’
‘Scandal? I’m not afraid of scandal,’ Kay said.
‘Then why,’ Arthur said, ‘are you leaving?’
‘Because Forbes told them to go,’ Eleanor put in.
‘That, miss, is a downright lie,’ Kay snapped.
‘First Gowry and now you,’ Eleanor said. ‘I saw him dismiss Gowry this afternoon. He has, I believe, already gone. I may only be a humble housekeeper, Mrs McCulloch, but I have been with the Franklins long enough to take everything that happens in this family very seriously. I heard your argument. No, I was not eavesdropping; the voices were all over the house. I could not help but hear them. Forbes wants Lindsay back, does he not?’
‘That has nothing to do with it, nothing at all,’ said Kay.
Arthur was seated on the piano stool, elbow resting on the lid, not at all put out by the prospect of his sister’s departure or by Eleanor’s interventions.
He said, ‘Nothing to do with it! Of course it has.’ He drummed his fingers on the polished wood. ‘As for there being no scandal, Kay, of course there’s a scandal. It’s a scandal that Forbes fathered a child on another woman, not just any woman, but the daughter of a colleague.’
‘Forbes married too young,’ Kay said. ‘He never had time to sow his wild oats. You pushed him too hard, Donald and you. You forced him into marriage.’
‘What utter nonsense!’ Arthur exclaimed.
‘You even denied him a place of his own. That’s all that Forbes ever wanted, a place of his own. But you wouldn’t let your precious daughter go. No, you had to have her by you to make up for what happened to Margaret.’
Arthur sucked his under lip. If he was hurt by his sister’s remark he gave no sign of it. ‘I’m sorry if that’s what you think, Kay,’ he said, ‘but I’m no longer prepared to spend my life listening out for the piper’s tune.’
‘The what? What are you talking about?’
‘Those days are past. I’m tired of yearning for what I never had or what might have been. I’ve survived thus far and I will survive a few more years yet, God willing, and I will give my support to Lindsay whatever she chooses to do.’
‘Even if she chooses to share a bed with some sailor?’
‘If Lindsay decides to remain with Forbes, or if she decides to divorce him,’ Arthur went on evenly, ‘I will support her.’
‘And her lover, her officer?’ Kay persisted.
‘If she loves Geoffrey Paget I will not stand in the way of a divorce,’ Arthur said. ‘However, you have turned the issue on its head. You were always good at that, Kay, much cleverer at that than any of us boys ever gave you credit for. It’s not my daughter who is to blame for this current mess, it’s your son. You will not face that fact, will you? You cannot bring yourself to admit that Forbes has let you down.’
‘He was – Forbes was…’
‘Wrong,’ Arthur said. ‘He was wrong, Kay, admit it.’
‘She never loved him,’ Kay said.
‘If you mean Lindsay,’ Arthur said, ‘that remains to be seen.’
‘If she comes back to him?’ Kay said.
‘Or if she does not,’ said Arthur. ‘Meanwhile, I have no wish to be blamed for anything that’s happened here. If you feel it’s best to leave and allow Forbes to sort out his own troubles then that is your decision, not mine.’
‘Wishy-washy, Arthur. You always were wishy-washy.’
He got to his feet and gave the lid of the piano a firm little rap with his knuckles, a sign of temper that only Eleanor recognised.
‘When are you leaving us, Kay?’ he asked.
‘Tomorrow morning, first thing.’
‘Well, thank God for that,’ said Arthur.
* * *
Tom had given Albert Hartnell two five pound notes with the promise of another when he, Albert, let him know that Sylvie had returned to the Mansions. He had been tempted to wait in the apartment until his daughter appeared but he had no idea how long that might be. Besides, he found the place so depressing and Albert so lachrymose that he had left after a half-hour to catch a tram-car back into Glasgow and a train from there to Partick West.
As he trekked towards Aydon Road under looming black clouds, he found himself thinking of Lindsay, the changes that Forbes had wrought in her and how those changes had been reversed by her friendship with Geoffrey Paget. He would hardly blame her if she did run off with the naval officer, though he did not think she would. Yesterday, just yesterday, he had been on and under the Gareloch inside the Snark and his fears had been for his safety; how trivial and remote those fears seemed now. It wasn’t sudden death or headline disasters that took you down but the unexpected intrusions of the past, those little claws of shame and contrition that tore at your stability.
Thunder boomed over Anniesland and sent echoes chasing like gigantic billiard balls down Crow Road. Lightning flickered above the tenements and the first great pattering drops of rain spotted the pavements. Pedestrians quickened their steps and carters whipped their horses into a trot as the rain came slicing down. Tom turned up his collar and loped towards the shelter of Franklin’s office block and the consolations of the drawing-board. For the time being, he did not know what else to do but return to work and await word from Albert or from Sylvie, a message, he knew, that might never arrive.
At half past six o’clock Tom packed up and went home. The streets still ran with rainwater but the sky had cleared and little blinks of sunshine and faint patches of blue were visible across the river. He had heard no more about the morning’s unfortunate incident, for Forbes, apparently, had left the yard and had not been seen since; nor had there been a message from St Mungo’s Mansions. The first thing Tom saw when he let himself in to the hallway of the Sandyford apartment, however, was luggage: two large suitcases, a carpet-cloth valise and a big hat-box tied with twine. His first thought was that Cissie, like Lindsay, had decided to leave home, that he had somehow driven her away.
He flung open the drawing-room door.
‘Hello, Papa,’ Sylvie said. ‘I’m so glad you weren’t late. We could not have waited for you if you had been late.’
He could think of nothing, nothing at all to say. It had been so long since he had seen her that he had almost forgotten what she looked like. He had cherished a vague idealised image of her in his mind, like a tiny tinted miniature locked behind scratched glass. Now she was here, perched on his armchair, with Gowry McCulloch standing awkwardly behind her and Cissie seated across the carpet. He felt tears thicken in his throat at the sight of his lost daughter, that chance child, the changeling whom he had traded away.
He glanced at Cissie and said, ‘Where’s Ewan?’
‘The maid’s taken him out for just a little while,’ Cissie said.
Sylvie said, ‘I didn’t know until yesterday that I had a brother.’
‘Half-brother,’ Gowry McCulloch corrected her gently.
‘A half-brother then. I am going to have a sister for him, or will she be – what will she be, Gowry?’
‘I’ll ha
ve to work that one out,’ Gowry said. He glanced at Tom. ‘I thought you might want – I’ve brought her to say goodbye.’
‘We’re going to Ireland on the night boat, Papa,’ Sylvie said. ‘Gowry, baby and me. We are sailing off to Ireland in search of better weather. She will be a little Irish colleen and Gowry will teach her to dance when she is old enough or, if she has a voice, she will learn to sing Irish songs.’
Her hair was coarser, not so golden, and quite bedraggled under her flowered bonnet. In spite of her prattle, she was a child no more. The shape of the child within her was so vast that it seemed to consume even his memory of Sylvie. He was tempted to throw himself on his knees, take her into his arms and beg her forgiveness for all the harm that he had done to her. But the man behind the chair – not Forbes but Gowry – seemed so stern and protective that Tom could not bring himself to approach her too closely. Instead, he aligned himself with Cissie, positioning himself by her chair; plump, freckled, plain, loving Cissie who was his protection against the past and his promise for the future.
‘Is your brother behind this abrupt departure?’ he asked Gowry. ‘Are you doing it for his sake?’
‘No, I’m doing it for her sake,’ Gowry McCulloch said.
‘I came back, you see.’ Sylvie twisted round and glanced up, smiling, at the man behind her. ‘Gowry fetched me back. Gowry says he will marry me, and I will be his for ever.’
‘I hope,’ Tom said, cautiously, ‘that’s how it will be.’
‘That’s how it will be,’ Gowry said.
‘I suppose you’ll need money?’ Tom said.
‘I have money,’ Gowry said.
‘Did Forbes…’
‘No, my money, my own money,’ Gowry said. ‘There is one thing you can do for us, though.’
‘Albert needs looking after,’ Sylvie said. ‘Dada needs looking after until we are settled and he can catch the boat and come to Ireland and stay with us. Will you buy him a boat ticket when the time comes?’
‘Of course I will,’ Tom said. ‘I’ll make sure that Albert doesn’t starve.’
‘Or drink himself to death,’ said Gowry.
‘Dada is very upset to see me go, but baby won’t wait and Gowry says we had better go at once.’
‘We’re leaving nothing behind,’ Gowry said. ‘I mean nothing.’
‘Why are you doing this, Gowry?’ Tom heard himself ask.
‘Because he loves her, of course,’ Cissie said. ‘Is that not so?’
‘Yes,’ Sylvie answered for him. ‘Gowry loves me.’
‘It’s high time someone did,’ said Gowry.
* * *
It was, after all, a half-life or no real life at all and by the weekend Lindsay was sure that it would not end in tears, not her tears at any rate.
She still loved Geoffrey and in more propitious circumstances would have been happy to be his wife. But the truth was that she loved him lightly, admiringly, and, because she was a Franklin, she could not bring herself to swoop into an affair without a thought for the consequences.
She had, she knew, used Geoffrey, exploiting his reticence and natural decency, secure in the knowledge that he would never threaten her as Forbes threatened her and that, no matter how sometimes she might wish it so, he would never demand from her a dark, tempestuous, tormented passion. That, perhaps, was their true and mutual bond, source of their trust, the mainspring of a love that would tick away as quick and constant as a little watch, and that Lindsay would feel within her, against her heart, wherever he or she might be.
The trials were over and he must leave soon.
The Snark would cruise down the west coast to Barrow-in-Furness for Vickers-Martin to test her guns, then on to Devonport for a thorough testing of her torpedoes against mock targets. Then probably across to Gibraltar for crew training before she joined the fleet somewhere. Geoffrey would not sail with her: no doubt the First Sea Lord had other plans for him. The D-class prototype would not be rejected, however, Geoffrey was certain of that. Delivery payments would be forthcoming by the month’s end and unless he missed his guess (and here he lied, even to Lindsay he lied) more contracts for undersea vessels would come Franklin’s way in the future.
He would leave on Monday morning on the early train.
Lindsay had seen little enough of Geoffrey during her ‘holiday’ in the Central Hotel, for she had been planning too, planning how to return home again. There had been messages from Eleanor, a telephone call from her father, cheerful news from Brunswick Crescent, trips up and down to Harper’s Hill to consult her aunt and uncle, to be hugged sympathetically by Martin and patronised by Pansy, and to pick up every scrap of news from every possible source. She had even made time to meet her children in Kelvingrove late on Saturday forenoon, after the McCullochs had fled.
The air had been fresh after the thunderstorm, a breeze shook the wet leaves on the trees along the river, and Miss Runciman, as they strolled the walks behind the perambulator, had told her with palpable glee that Forbes had been devastated by his mother’s threatened departure although he had instigated it and knew it was the only way to get Lindsay back. Soon after Forbes had left for work, therefore, Kay, Blossom and Winn had swept off, bag and baggage, and to all intents and purposes, literally as well as figuratively, Forbes would return to an empty house with no one to boss or bully or provide a target for his wrath.
After lunch at the Hill, Lindsay left Miss Runciman and the children with Aunt Lilias and went to call on Cissie and Tom at Sandyford. There she learned that Sylvie and Gowry had also left for Ireland and that Forbes, apparently searching not for his wife or his mistress but for his brother, had dropped in at Sandyford on his way to the yard. He had been so agitated and contrite that, astonishingly, he had wept into Cissie’s shoulder over porridge and toast and had told her, with something approaching sincerity, that he had always considered her to be the best of his cousins and the only one he could trust.
Tom had been disgusted, or just this side of it, by the outburst and had refused to share a ride to work in the big, damp Lanchester that Forbes claimed to have borrowed to make his desperate rounds.
‘You will go back to him, won’t you?’ Cissie said. ‘I mean, dearest, you must go back to him, for in spite of all he has done, he is your husband and he cannot live without you.’
‘Oh, I doubt that,’ Lindsay said. ‘I think Forbes would manage very well without me.’
‘But what would he do? I mean, you’re so – so close.’
It was not what Forbes would do without her that troubled Lindsay but what he would do with her. She feared that he would somehow re-knit the marriage to suit him, that his anxiety would quickly be forgotten and another girl, another woman, brought in to replace Sylvie. He would justify it by telling himself that he was too much of a man to be content with one woman and that he needed complexity, variety and spice. He would surely be more cautious next time too and appear to accommodate himself to marriage until his lies had taken root and he could safely renege on all his promises once more. In a word, Lindsay thought, how could she ever trust him again?
‘Close?’ she replied to wide-eyed Cissie. ‘Yes, I suppose we are.’
‘There’s a special meeting of the partners on Monday morning,’ Tom said. ‘We’re examining ways of acquiring more capital with a view to increasing our capacity. If your friend Paget’s to be believed we might be in for a period of expansion, and we’ll need to be ready for it.’
‘Will – will anything be said about…’
‘I hope not,’ Tom said, ‘but I think it rather depends on you.’
‘On me?’ said Lindsay, surprised.
‘On whether you’ll be there in person, or whether you will not.’
She was tempted to give him an answer. Tom Calder was after all her friend too, a chap she should perhaps have married. Different worlds, different times, different projections: there was no crystal ball, no writing in the stars to tell you what to do for the best. You had only you
r heart to listen to and, perhaps, your head. Tom, she realised, had tactfully reminded her that Franklin’s was her destiny, Harry and Philip her future; a future that sometimes seemed to stretch into a dazzling infinity of possibilities and at other times to be as preordained as the passing of the seasons and the rising of the tides.
She would not go off with Geoffrey, of course, would not run away from her responsibilities. But she would not tell Tom that, or Forbes. She would keep her decision a secret for just a little while longer.
‘Do you not think,’ Lindsay said, ‘that it rather depends on Forbes?’
‘On Forbes?’ said Cissie.
‘On whether he accepts my offer,’ Lindsay said, ‘or whether he does not.’
‘What offer?’ Cissie said.
* * *
‘Four sixty-fourths, Forbes,’ Lindsay said. ‘A transfer of four sixty-fourths from your share of the partnership into my name.’
‘That can’t be done,’ Forbes said.
‘Indeed it can. All it requires is the agreement of a majority of the partners and that, given the circumstances, will certainly be forthcoming,’ Lindsay said. ‘According to Mr Harrington there’s no legal impediment to the transfer of shares between existing partners. He will draft the document and the board will nod it through.’
‘You have been busy, haven’t you?’ Forbes said. ‘Who put this idea into you head? Paget, was it? Is this what passes for pillow talk between you?’
He was sprawled on the sofa in the ground-floor drawing-room, legs crossed and hands behind his head. He did not appear to be at all distraught. Cissie, no doubt, would have been disappointed to find him so recovered but it came as no surprise to Lindsay. In fact, she would have been disappointed if he had been anything other than his sly, old arrogant self, for she had learned how to deal with that aspect of his character and had no wish to alter it. For this reason she had warned him of her arrival and had made sure that Eleanor, Arthur and the children would all remain at Harper’s Hill.
Although Forbes had dressed with care, he could not quite manage to hide the bruised shadows under his eyes, or the wariness in them, and beneath the wariness she sensed an unusual fragility. He was, she realised, unsure of her, vastly and manifestly unsure.
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