The Piper's Tune (17 page)

‘See,' she heard Forbes say. ‘She already knows what's what, Bertie. Must be instinctive – or inheritance, maybe. Something in the blood.'

Sylvie put three of the four black dice into the cup, covered it with her palm and shook it vigorously. She
clumped
the cup down on the cloth, lifted the cup away and inspected the result. Five, three, one: very odd. She put the dice back into the cup and glanced over her shoulder.

She said, ‘Let me do it, Dada.'

Dada Hartnell sighed, frowned, shrugged.

She said, ‘We're playing for your guinea, aren't we?'

‘That's it,' Forbes said. ‘Double or quits.'

Sylvie said, ‘I haven't seen the colour of your money yet.'

‘What? Don't you trust me?'

‘Implicitly,' Sylvie said.

‘Do you know what you're doing, youngster?' Charley said.

‘I shake the dice three times. I'm looking for pairs. If my highest pair is higher than his after three shakes then I win; if not, I lose. If somebody throws three matching numbers then they win immediately. Is that how it's done?'

‘You've got it, honey,' Charley said.

‘Presumably,' Sylvie said, ‘if neither of us turns out a matching pair on three shakes of the dice we continue until someone does?'

‘That's it,' said Forbes. ‘They call it Sudden Death.'

She brought the rim of the cup to her lips. Closing her eyes, she kissed it and offered up a little prayer; not for herself, of course, but for the sake of the poor, benighted heathens who lived out of God's sight on the Coral Strand.

She smiled at him. ‘Ladies first?'

‘By all means,' said Forbes, graciously.

Sylvie drew back her arm.

*   *   *

‘
How
much?' Florence Hartnell said.

‘Forty-four shillings,' her husband told her.

‘Forty-four shillings!'

‘Not bad for a night's work, eh?'

‘Not bad? It's – it's astounding.' She leaned against him, bosom brushing his shoulder. ‘Banknotes too, I see. One generous donor, Albert?'

‘No, I exchanged some of the small stuff at the Merkland wine vaults. I didn't want to be caught jingling along Dumbarton Road after dark.'

Florence darted a glance behind her. Sylvie was seated in her old wooden high chair from which Dada had removed the arms, innocently kicking her legs and nibbling a crustless fish-paste sandwich. There was no point in quizzing her foster daughter: Sylvie would support Dada's story, come what may. She turned again and peered down at the cash on the tabletop. Three ten shilling banknotes, four half-crowns and a somewhat tarnished florin. There would be much ‘counting out' to do tonight. She watched Albert smooth the notes with the flat of his hand, stack the half-crowns and place the florin on top.

He was grinning like the cat that ate the goldfish.

‘Albert, what have you been up to?'

‘Nothing, Mama.' Sylvie answered for him in her twittering little-girl voice. ‘It was just that sort of night. God was good to us, wasn't He, Dada?'

‘He certainly was, dear. He certainly was.'

‘First we went into Mr Forsyth's, then to the Corona and then the King's Tavern. Everyone seemed possessed by a spirit of generosity wherever we went. I don't know why that should be, Mama. Perhaps it's the spring.'

‘Did you give her drink, Albert?'

‘Of course not.'

‘And you? Have you been at the Allsopp's?'

‘I had one glass, a half glass.'

‘Albert! You promised.'

‘Damn it all, Florence…'

‘The Vigilance Society weren't there, Mama,' Sylvie said, without a trace of irony, ‘and it
was
a very warm night. I had some soda water.'

‘Did you put her up on the table?'

‘I told you, I don't do that any more.'

‘Very well.' Florence leaned against him. ‘I believe you, though thousands wouldn't. Go on, Albert, count it out.'

Still grinning, Dada plucked up a ten shilling note and tossed it into the wicker basket. ‘One for the Foreign Mission,' he said. He lifted another banknote, folded it and slotted it neatly into the biscuit barrel that Florence placed to hand. ‘And one for us. One for the Foreign Mission…'

‘And,' said Florence and Sylvie in perfect harmony, ‘one for us.'

CHAPTER SEVEN

Postcard from Portsmouth

Combating nausea had never been a problem for Tom Calder. Even on a torpedo-boat bobbing like a cork miles from shore a couple of deep breaths would dispel any tendency to queasiness. The same could not be said for Martin. Of the six-man team that Franklin's sent to the Solent to test a brace of coal-fired boilers for the Navy Commission, Martin suffered most.

Personally Tom was not convinced that the navy really knew what it was doing by commissioning coal boilers at all. The Dutch and the Americans had recently obtained good results from the use of liquid fuel and Franklin's had designs on the drawing board for oil-fired steam-raising apparatus. Martin and Tom had argued the toss with Jason Melrose, R.N., but after the boilers had been installed and the
Banshee
put out for sea trials Martin rapidly lost interest in arguing the toss about anything.

The programme included trials at one thousand horse-power, trials at full power, and a coal endurance test. With Martin retching into a bucket below, it was left to Tom, aided by MacDougal, Franklin's foreman fitter, to record the calorimetric observations for the management. Engineer Lieutenant Jason Melrose was the main representative of the navy's Water-Tube Boiler Committee. Tom had respect for Melrose who had served his time with Thornycroft's but not for the petty officers and warrant-rank ship's engineers who seemed to think that wearing a uniform or navy-issue overalls endowed them with authority over everything that moved upon the face of the deep.

Tom was also put out by the fact that the navy insisted on the boilers being installed in the
Banshee,
a miserable old scow launched back in 1889 with a set of locomotive boilers that had never functioned properly. The new boilers were modifications of a Babcock prototype and by reducing the diameter of the tubes and redesigning the steam-collecting drum Mr Arthur, Peter Holt and he had adapted them for use in torpedo gunboats. Tom was familiar with every seam and joint in the boiler tubes and took pride in his work. He was as anxious as the naval commissioners to assess the trial data and had worked conscientiously through the twelve-hour stint at sea, measuring and recording everything from the carbon value of coal to the temperature of chimney gases.

He did not like being away from home, however. He had no taste for gossiping in the officers' club or the so-called ‘wardroom' on the Parade and, on balance, preferred the Niger to southern England. Martin and he were billeted in a small hotel in Gosport across the harbour, MacDougal and the rest of the Franklin's team in a boarding-house nearby. The fitters had been sent home as soon as the job of installation had been completed and MacDougal, a stereotypical Glaswegian, spent his evenings touring the local pubs in search of a drinkable whisky and the chance of a brawl – all of which left Martin and Tom rather high and dry.

It was after eight o'clock before they sat down at a table in the hotel dining-room. Martin was still whey-faced and shaky after his ordeal but seemed determined to go out again tomorrow for the horse-power trial. Service was slow and grudging and in the long interval between the Windsor soup and the boiled mutton, conversation turned from technical matters to wistful speculation on what might be happening in that distant city on the banks of the Clyde.

Thursday night choir practice would be warming up in St Silas's school, Perry Perrino working himself into a lather, the as-yet-unmarried Matilda pounding on the piano, sundry voices swooping and diving like swallows as each part of the ‘The Cameronian's Dream' was rehearsed, adjusted and reassembled. Tom hoped that he wouldn't have fallen too far out of tune by the time he got home, for he was eager to appear in the Glasgow Choirs' concert in St Andrew's Halls, an event that would bring the season to an early conclusion.

Martin was dreaming not of his beloved homeland, apparently, but of the lovely Aurora Swann. He picked a piece of gristle from his teeth, put it on the side of his plate, and said, ‘You've been married, Tom, haven't you?'

‘I have.'

‘What's it like?'

‘Marriage in general?'

‘The physical side of it. Is it – difficult?'

‘No, not difficult; a bit awkward at first. Patience is essential, patience on your part, and the utmost consideration for the lady's modesty.'

‘Hmmm. I'm not very good at being patient,' Martin confessed. ‘I just hope Rora knows what she's doing.'

‘I doubt if she will,' Tom said, with a little shake of the head. ‘It isn't considered necessary – or proper – for a young woman to be informed about such things. I mean, you haven't…'

‘Good God, no!'

Tom chewed mutton, drank water from a glass. ‘It's somehow just taken for granted that the bridegroom will have all the necessary experience.'

‘But I haven't. I mean, I've never…'

‘Nor had I,' said Tom.

‘But, I mean, it
was
all right, wasn't it?'

Colour had returned to Martin's cheeks. In spite of all the bombast, all the music-hall double-entendres that marked the chatter of young men these days the majority were just as ignorant of the basic facts of life as he, Tom Calder, had been. Some, a few, would learn what to do from tarts or prostitutes but that had never been his style and, unless he missed his guess, it wasn't Martin Franklin's either.

‘Yes,' Tom said, tactfully. ‘It took us a little time to adjust to the intimacy of sharing – well, a bed. But believe me, Martin, nature will take care of things, provided you don't feel too strong an obligation to prove yourself.'

‘I'm not sure I understand.'

Tom had no wish to discuss his marriage which, in the long run, had been a good deal less than ideal. He had gone to the altar filled with more apprehension than anticipation. Had fretted about his ability to support a wife, to pay household bills, far too many worries to let ‘that one' dominate. Even so, he had been nervous when Dorothy and he had found themselves alone after the wedding supper and rather shocked to discover that she was more eager for conjugal relations than he was. The fumbling phase had not lasted long. Dorothy had been a sensual creature. Once she had found the key, her flighty nature had drawn her in directions that he would have preferred not to follow and had eventually lured her into adultery.

Martin would have no such concerns. By all accounts Aurora Swann was a well-brought-up young woman and there would be no worries about money to blight their bliss.

Tom said, ‘I take it Aurora loves you?'

‘Oh, yes, I'm sure she does.'

‘And you love her?'

‘Most positively.'

‘Then the physical aspect will take care of itself.' Tom too was becoming embarrassed, not so much by the topic as by the suspicion that he was beginning to pontificate. ‘Has someone been saying things that worry you, Martin?'

Martin pushed away his plate.

He hesitated, then admitted, ‘My cousin.'

‘Lindsay?' said Tom. ‘Surely not!'

‘God, no,' said Martin. ‘My cousin Forbes.'

Tom had not forgotten that odd afternoon in the park when Cissie Franklin had used him as a defence against the young Dubliner. He had not liked Forbes McCulloch then and he did not like him now. To give the lad credit, he was a keen worker, very quick and intelligent. Nevertheless, Tom had often overheard Forbes and George Crush discuss women in a callous and disparaging manner that he found offensive.

‘What's Forbes been telling you, Martin?'

‘How to – how to do it.'

‘Is that all?'

‘No.' Martin's face was aflame. ‘He told me to take advantage of being away from home to – to…'

‘Find a woman?'

‘Yes.'

‘Do you want to?'

‘No.'

‘Then pay him no heed.'

‘Forbes says everyone does it.'

‘Everyone does not do it,' Tom said emphatically.

‘Forbes says that he's done it.'

The reason for Martin's anxiety was now clear. He had fallen foul of the influence of his Irish cousin. Martin was no sniggering schoolboy. He was about twenty-five years old, halfway to inheriting responsibility for running a shipyard that employed more than four hundred men, yet he was scared of losing face, of having to ‘prove' himself by paying a street women to stimulate and satisfy not so much his lust as his curiosity.

‘Do you want me to have a word with Lieutenant Melrose?' Tom said.

‘What? What for?'

‘He's bound to know where the brothels are in Portsmouth.'

‘Oh, no. No, no,' said Martin. ‘I just – I just wanted to…'

‘It's the perfect opportunity,' Tom said, ‘if you're that way inclined.'

‘Have you ever – I mean, ever been to one of those places?'

Tom shook his head. ‘Never.'

‘Not even in Africa?'

‘Africa?'

‘I've heard that you can have native girls just for the asking.'

‘Whoever spun you that idiotic tale doesn't know what they're talking about,' Tom said. ‘Forbes, I expect, or was it George Crush?'

‘Forbes, actually.'

‘It's not my place to offer you advice, Martin, and you've no reason to heed what I say, but…'

‘Go on, Tom. I'm listening.'

‘Forbes is only trying to bring you down.'

‘Bring me down? Why would he want to do that?'

‘Perhaps he's jealous.'