The Glass House

by Beatrice Colin

  A man was standing at the doorway, watching her. It wasn’t the same photographer as before. This one was older.

  “Looking for something more specialized?” He gave her a wink. “Something Continental?”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “I can do you a Mata Hari,” he said, raising an eyebrow.

  She forgot the prints, turned away, and rejoined the throng on Dundas Street, pulling her hat lower. Was that how she appeared to the world here? As an exotic dancer? A courtesan?

  Isaac Balfour was out for lunch and wasn’t due to return until three. She should have written to arrange an appointment, his secretary scolded; she shouldn’t have come all that way without one. She knew this was true, but when she had woken up that morning feeling better, she knew she must take advantage. And besides, time was of the essence.

  Outside, a rush of wind ruffled the trees. The sun came out, filling Balfour’s office window with color, brilliant green against the ache of blue. What would George say? It was not his discovery. Did it matter? If she was right she could make an arrangement with Lorimer. He would pay handsomely for it. Maybe the money would be enough for Antonia and Malcolm, and eventually Kitty, to keep Balmarra.

  “Mrs. Pick?”

  She opened her eyes. Isaac Balfour was standing in front of her, a faint smile fixed on his face. Had she fallen asleep?

  “You wanted to see me?”

  “I did,” she said and rose to her feet. “I have a plant I would like you to look at.”

  As she explained that her gardener had grown it in the glass house, Balfour examined the seedling. Then he glanced up at her from beneath unruly eyebrows. Cicely was suddenly nervous. Had she been mistaken? Maybe Baillie had been wrong, and it was just a common species?

  “The leaves have a very distinctive shape and color,” the Regius Keeper said. “I would have to check the records, but if my memory serves me right it appears to be the same shape as that known as the Snow Tree collected by Père Armand David in the 1860s. He described it in detail in his journals, but the seeds were lost. But you know that, I expect.”

  “I do,” she said.

  He smiled. At last.

  “Pass on my congratulations to your husband,” he said.

  The wave of relief was so strong that she felt almost as if all her strings had been cut.

  “I’ll write and tell him today,” she said.

  “The first of many discoveries, I hope,” he said. “Where exactly did he find it?”

  Cicely hesitated. She hadn’t prepared an answer.

  “I’m sure he won’t give away its exact location to anyone,” Balfour said with another smile. “I know some collectors would pay a pretty penny for a Snow Tree.”

  * * *

   After she had seen Cicely off on the train, Antonia wondered what she might do with herself rather than head straight home. Even if she had wanted to see Malcolm, he didn’t like being disturbed while he was working. Instead she walked along the coastal road, all the way to the Customs House in Greenock, and then she found herself heading toward the old sugar refinery.

  The redbrick wall of Pick’s refinery was still intact. It was too high to see over and loomed above the cobbled streets the way it always had, with a seam of weeds at the bottom and the peeling remnants of paper notices stuck all the way along. Antonia glanced at them as she passed: a circus, a flying show, a church fete, a meeting for suffragists. The gate was locked, but the chain was rusty and gave way when Antonia pushed it. She stepped through and pulled the gate shut behind her. It wasn’t trespassing, was it, if the lot was still unoccupied? After the fire, her father had put it on the market but no one, so far as she knew, had come forward to take it over: There were six other refineries in the town already.

  The factory looked almost the same as she remembered apart from the soot around the windows and the scatter of broken glass on the ground. Two parallel silver wagon tracks looked almost polished, despite the fact that the cars were piled up in a shed, wheelless and broken. The drying rooms with their huge ovens were still intact, but the rest of the refinery, where dark brown muscovado sugar from the West Indies had been boiled and purified before being transformed into cones of white sugar, was skeletal—a blackened framework of charred wood and twisted metal.

  Was it just her imagination that she could still smell sweetness in the air? As a girl she had loved this place, the crystals she had been given to suck as a treat, the rough dark stickiness of the raw sugar in its sacks and the polished surfaces of the white cones before they were wrapped in blue paper and packed. She had not known then—it had simply never occurred to her—that not everyone had servants or an estate. The rude awakening came when she was a little older and was taken by her father to pay their respects to the families who had lost members in a refinery fire—there were always fires. She remembered the scratch of her Sunday clothes against her skin at the church service that seemed to last for hours, and then the walk along narrow dark streets, delivering toys to bereaved children, followed by the slow realization that whole families lived in houses smaller than a single stable and that some of the children were not wearing shoes even though it was cold enough for boots. It was then that she saw that her papa had two faces, one for family and one for the rest of the world. She barely recognized the latter, and it scared her. Over the next few years it came in small parcels of insight, each one more dreadful than the last: Pick’s Sugar employed hundreds of people, most of whom lived in abject poverty. The fact that cones of clean white sugar were produced from the filthy sacks of brown was an almost perfect illustration of the way that their wealth had been created from squalor.

  Everything her family had was the result of alchemy, of transformation; that you could take one thing and produce another. Her great-grandfather had sailed to Jamaica as a cabin boy, and his son had come back thirty years later with a fortune. When she had asked her father about those days, however, he had been reticent. And yet it had some long-lasting effect on him. She remembered a time when her father had crossed a busy road in Glasgow rather than pass a black man. Was it guilt, shame, remorse, or a mixture of all three? And who was the black woman whose portrait he had stashed away in the attic?

  The sun came out as she entered the old boiling house. The fire had gutted the office, and a thin ash dust still hung in the air. A few things had been left on a shelf, and she lifted each in turn; a clay sugar mold, a pair of metal nippers, and a tin with “Pick’s Sugar” embossed on the top. Should she tell Cicely about George? Was there any point? It was just like him to disappear. He would return; he always did. And then she thought about Malcolm. Even before Cicely and Kitty had arrived, love had become a habit rather than a choice. Could their marriage recover? Maybe she should look for a solicitor and start the process of divorce? And yet the idea of being a social outcast, a divorcée, alone, unloved, did not appeal. And what of her husband himself? She had thought him a good man once. Could she feel the same way again? The clay mold fell from the shelf and shattered on the floor, making her jump. She moved a few broken fragments with the toe of her boot.

  A paddle steamer blew its horn on the river. An omnibus passed by on the road on the other side of the wall. A bird sang in what was left of the rafters in the roofless refinery. Life went on despite everything. She already knew what she would do next. She had decided days if not weeks before. She brushed the dust from her skirts, smoothed her hair, and bit her lips to make them rosy. Then she headed back out the refinery gate.

  19

  The hall was crowded with children, ranging in age from around three, Cicely guessed, up to about twelve. While a string of them played tag, some of the older ones carried the youngest on their hips, shoulders, and backs. Their voices rose up to the vaulted ceiling and echoed across the polished marble floor like birdsong.

  It had taken Cicely several days to recover from the Edinburgh trip. As soon as she felt stronger, however, Cicely had arranged a meeting with Lorimer at his office at th
e mill, taken the ferry, then the train to Paisley, and walked along the river Cart. And now here she sat, on a wooden bench beneath a large framed advertisement for sewing cotton, as the daylight fell in great shafts from the windows and the dust mites danced.

  The sheer scale of Lorimer’s business was so much larger than she had expected: There were twisting mills and dyeworks, a counting house and a spooling shop. There were hundreds if not thousands of workers, and the clatter and noise from the machinery and the smoke from the chimney stacks and the smell of caustic soda were overpowering. And now this: a room full of children when Lorimer had none.

  A small group of women stood by the window, shushing the children or picking one by name to scold.

  “John Mackenzie. You’ve been telt already! Helen Bain. I’m watching you!”

  Although it was a cold clear morning, Cicely noticed that many of the smaller children were barefoot. In general, the others’ clothes were too big or too small, sleeves falling over hands and trousers ending above ankles. But they didn’t seem to notice or care. What were they doing there, she wondered, bringing so much life to such an industrial space? Finally a door opened to a room at the far end of the hallway, and the children were ushered inside. Within moments the great hall fell silent.

  After she had checked that her hair was tucked into its comb, she looked at her face in a small compact mirror, smoothing out the lines below her eyes. She wore her brown coat with the rabbit-fur trim—her best—and had spent some time applying kohl and lipstick, face powder and cologne. Although the effect was what she had intended, she suspected that there was something in her face that could not be hidden or blotted by rouge.

  “You’re here!” a voice called out.

  Lorimer stood in a doorway at the far end of the hall. The door was large, and he looked very small. She stood up.

  “Yes,” she said. “I want to thank you for seeing me at such short notice—”

  “It’s been a busy day,” he said, walking toward her. “I hope you haven’t had to wait too long.”

  “Not long,” she said.

  “You see, once a year we distribute boots, stockings, and shoes,” he explained. “To children who need them.”

  “That’s very generous.”

  He shrugged his shoulders in acknowledgment.

  “It’s a small gesture,” he admitted.

  Lorimer’s office looked out across the river to a glade of trees on the other side. The absence of red brick and chimney stacks, of any sign of the mill, made it feel as if it were turning its back on the works, on all the ugliness and sprawl. There wasn’t much there; a desk, two chairs, and a large wooden filing cabinet.

  “You look well,” he replied. “Are you fully recovered?”

  “Almost,” she said. “But this disease has a habit of relapsing. I’m not sure one is ever completely recovered.”

  “Then you must take care,” he said, pulling out a chair. “Please. Sit down.”

  She sat, then waited until he was seated opposite. The pale light fell slanted on his face, his shoulders, the angles of his hands.

  “Mrs. Pick,” he said. “How may I help you?”

  “I’ll get straight to the point,” she said. “What would you say, Mr. Lorimer, if I could give you what you wanted?”

  He stared at her and then started to arrange his pens on his ledger.

  “It depends what you mean?” he said.

  She was suddenly sorry for her choice of words, for what she was about to say. It made it seem as if all that came before was merely a preamble to a business transaction. And yet the anxiety she had lived with since she had arrived in Scotland had finally eased. If this business turned out the way she hoped, Antonia could keep the estate, Kitty could attend school, George’s expedition would be properly financed, and she would be able to go home and resume her life in Darjeeling. A shadow briefly crossed her heart.

  “Mrs. Pick?” he said, bringing her back to the moment.

  “The Snow Tree,” she said. “We have found the Snow Tree.”

  He leaned forward. He closed his eyes, then smiled.

  “That’s second on my list,” he said. “But please, do go on.”

  Although that sentence would echo in her head for days afterward, all she could hear at the time were her own words, the ones she had rehearsed for days beforehand.

  “We have grown a specimen from seed, and I have had it verified by the Regius Keeper at the Botanic Gardens in Edinburgh,” she said. “The botanical nomenclature, if you wanted, could include your name.”

  “Your husband would give me that?”

  “You can have both,” she replied. “The seedling and the name.”

  His mouth tightened, and he sat back in his chair. Noise from the factory spilled into the room, the regular boom of a machine, the yell of a foreman, the spin of the bobbins.

  “And it’s the only one, you say, the only one that’s been successfully grown here?”

  “According to the Regius Keeper, yes.”

  “How much were you thinking?” he asked.

  “Maybe you could offer what you think it’s worth?” she replied.

  He named a figure, much higher than she had imagined.

  “I’ll send Mr. Baillie over with the seedling,” she said. “And thank you.”

  It was as they were saying good-bye, as they stood beside the door, not yet open. Maybe it was the sense of gratitude she felt, the intense relief. He was standing close, so close that she could hear his breath, in and out, she could feel the rapid beat of his heart in his chest and sense the pull of him, the tug of every nerve in her body. Or maybe it was the fever that remained in her blood, the race of mortality in her veins, but something made her hesitate and linger on the threshold. As a telephone rang in an office somewhere and was not answered, as the machinery clattered and rumbled in the spooling shop, as the waterwheel churned on the river, it seemed for one vivid moment that something passed between them, the recognition of an impulse that couldn’t be articulated.

  Lorimer raised his right hand, he moved it toward her, and for a second she thought he was going to touch her. Instead he reached down and pulled a loose thread from her coat. She imagined that he could pull and pull and her coat, her dress, her slip would fall apart. She would literally be undone.

  “It grew from a seed,” she said.

  “It did,” he replied.

  A knock sounded on the door. It was opened by a clerk.

  “Mr. Lorimer,” he said. “You’re needed on the telephone urgently.”

  “Maybe it’s better,” she said softly, “if we conduct the rest of our business by letter.”

  “Better for whom?” he asked.

  * * *

   Henry’s house was modest, a two-up two-down a couple of streets back from the Esplanade. An old bicycle was propped up outside. Antonia ran her fingers over the rusted steel of the frame and the wicker of the basket before she took a deep breath and knocked. It was clear that even though it was already ten, Henry had been sleeping. It was also clear that he had not expected that she would ever visit. In fact he looked downright horrified. She considered making her excuses and leaving, but as soon as she opened her mouth to begin to suggest it, he ushered her inside, as quick as you like, before the landlady saw.

  “Will she start a scandal?” Antonia joked. It was easier to make fun of the situation than to show how awkward she felt.

  “No, she will start a conversation,” he replied. “Which is far worse in my experience.”

  It was only once that she was inside that she realized that he did not live in the whole house but had just a bed-sitting room. He closed the door and looked around for somewhere for her to sit. Almost every surface—tables, the mantelpiece, the bed, the chairs, and most of the floor—was covered with books, newspapers, paint tubes, palettes, canvases, letters, and empty coffee cups. An open suitcase lay on the floor. A cat was curled up on a cushion on the only armchair, so he cleared a wooden seat at a
table and offered it to her.

  “I’m sorry—” he began.

  “Don’t be,” she replied. “I really shouldn’t have dropped in on you like this, without warning. It was most impolite.”

  He made a pot of tea and poured them both a cup.

  “Going somewhere?” she asked, indicating the suitcase.

  “Actually, yes,” he replied. “Paris.”

  “For good?”

  He gave a decisive nod. She felt momentarily pleased for him.

  “Well,” he said, finally sitting down. “Is there anything else I can do for you or is this a social call?”

  She sipped the tea, then inhaled deeply.

  “Either way,” he added, “it’s lovely to see you again.”

  She found she was staring at Henry, at his unwashed hair and unlaundered collar. And despite the fact that either one would make any other man undesirable, on Henry they had the opposite effect. Or was it because he was leaving? Did that fact make him more attractive? He picked a spot of bright blue paint from the palm of his left hand.

  “Henry,” she said softly.

  He didn’t answer. The milkman’s cart clattered by outside; a young girl skipped past the window, singing softly to herself; a factory whistle blew a few streets away. And then there was silence, a silence that seemed to grow deafening. The moment had passed, she saw now, years earlier. Antonia collected her thoughts, her gloves, and drained the cup of tea.

  “I must be getting home,” she said and rose to her feet. “Thank you so much for the tea.”

  Tears were approaching, like a cold front. Without another word, she rushed to the door, let herself out, and then knocked over the bicycle with a clatter.