Authors: Jessica Stirling
Cissie glanced up and caught her cousin's eye. He had a smile on his face, a familiar little smile that tugged at the corner of his cheek and created something appallingly like a dimple. He was eating grilled kidneys and, without taking his eyes from her, speared one with his fork and put it in his mouth. He said nothing, not a word, but that smile, that insinuating smile remained upon his face even while he chewed and swallowed.
Cissie loathed him, loathed and feared and loved him. She could not shake off the sensation of his hands upon her. She knew what his body looked like, was privy to that information. Information was all it was, a fierce, cunning sort of mischief that he and she shared but that she could share with no one else. For who would believe her? These days she was regarded as a nuisance, a hysterical trouble-maker, Forbes as sane and sensible. Only she seemed to have realised that he was two people, three people, a whole anthology of different and differing characters, one of whom â only one â she loved without regard for the hurt it brought her or the satisfaction it afforded him.
Forbes said, âPerhaps it's from her lover.'
âYes,' said Pansy, âor a secret admirer.'
âDo not be ridiculous, Pansy,' Donald told her.
âProfessor Duval?' Johnny suggested.
âResurfaced in Portsmouth,' Ross added.
âRun off to sea to mend his broken heart,' said Pansy.
âGo on, Cissie, turn it over,' Forbes said.
âPut us out of our misery,' said Ross.
Forbes watched her unflinchingly, still chewing. He was confident that the postcard would be harmless, meaningless, a damp squib. That she would be made a fool of once more, driven back towards him, fluttering and squawking like a chicken in a coop. That he â all of them â would have the last laugh on poor, fat, frightful Cissie.
She lifted a corner of the postcard and, like a gambler who must keep his hand hidden, peeped at it. Everyone at table watched, some anxiously, some eagerly. She flattened the card again and rubbed it with her forefinger.
âIt is,' she said. âI knew it would be.'
âWhat?' said Johnny. âFrom Duval?'
âNo.' Cissie looked straight at Forbes. His jaw had stopped working and the smile was gone. âIt is actually from my lover.'
âYour lover!' Pansy exclaimed. âYou with a lover!'
âAnd who might that be?' Forbes asked.
âNone of your damned business,' Cissie answered and, taking up the card and pressing it to her breast, quietly left the dining-room.
âHer lover?' Lilias said as soon as the door closed. âCissie doesn't have a lover? Does she? Pansy, does she?'
âHow would I know? She never talks to me any more.'
Donald laughed, rather uneasily. âTom Calder's down in Portsmouth along with Martin testing the Babcock boilers for the navy, so bored, I imagine, that he's sending postcards to anyone whose address he can recall.'
âTom Calder,' Forbes said, with a smug little nod. âOf course.'
âNothing wrong with Tom Calder,' Pappy Owen said.
âFor Cissie, our Cissie?' said Johnny.
âAt least Tom's one up on old Duval,' said Forbes.
âReally?' said Pansy. âIn what way?'
âHe's still breathing, isn't he?' said Forbes.
And everybody laughed.
*Â Â Â *Â Â Â *
Cissie went straight upstairs to the third floor of the mansion, an ill-lit region of attics and storerooms where, some years ago now, an apartment had been fitted out to accommodate the nurses who had attended her grandmother in her last illness. She went into the water-closet that had never been plumbed properly and that still groaned and dribbled when pressure was low, a narrow, shadowy refuge with a single tinted glass window high on the wall.
She often came here to weep in private, to wash away her despair. She was not in a weepy mood this morning, though. She felt quite gay in fact, buoyed up less by the manager's postcard than by the capital she had managed to make out of it. She intended to read what Tom Calder had written â clichéd greetings, no doubt â then tear up the card and sluice the pieces away so that no one would ever know who had taken the trouble to drop her a line. It would probably come out sooner or later: Mr Calder would mention it to Papa, Papa would tell Mama and Mama would chide her for being so secretive over something so simple and ordinary.
She closed the door, bolted it and slid the heavy mahogany lid across the pedestal. After making sure that all the surfaces were clean and dry, she carefully seated herself.
She was far up in the house, high above the bedrooms, the library, the music-room, the dining-room, the sundry parlours. Outside pigeons crooned and scrabbled in the roof ridge. She felt not isolated but airy. Holding the postcard between her palms she studied the depiction of Lord Nelson's flagship from several angles. It didn't look at all like a famous piece of history, more like something that Coleridge's Ancient Mariner might have encountered in one of his nightmares. She turned the card over and read what Mr Calder had printed in an amazingly neat hand.
She ran into him quite frequently at choral events and concerts and, most recently, at the launch of an A-class torpedo-boat destroyer that everyone, including Lindsay, seemed very excited about. He always made a point of speaking to her but, like the other men, seemed to have far more to say to her pretty cousin Lindsay. With the edges of the postcard pressing the flesh of her thumbs, Cissie recalled that daft Sunday in the park when Mr Calder, sporting a striped blazer and straw boater, had played his part so well. It seemed like an eternity since she had been that carefree, when her life had been uncomplicated and unstained by emotions over which she had no control.
She read the postcard again.
Simple greetings, ordinary news, not in the least clichéd.
The
Banshee,
she gathered, was the naval craft in which Franklin's boilers had been installed. The weather had not been kind. She wondered how Martin had coped with rough seas; Martin had a habit of turning green while crossing the Clyde on a ferry. She wished that Mr Calder had dropped a hint that he too remembered that day in the park when she had flirted with him and hung on to his arm.
On the ridge above the window pigeons crooned. She could see their plump shadows strutting behind the glass. For a moment she felt like crying â then suddenly she did not. She unbuttoned her dress, slipped the postcard inside and buttoned up again. It would be unjust to Tom Calder to tear it up. She would hide it somewhere in her bedroom, and when she was feeling blue, she would re-read it, a gloss to happier times.
Cissie, rising, unbolted the closet door.
*Â Â Â *Â Â Â *
âWhere are we going tonight, Dada?' Sylvie asked as soon as they came out of the close mouth.
âWhere would you like to go, sweetheart?'
âKirby's.'
âKirby's? My goodness, you are becoming adventurous. Is it that young man you're hoping to see? He's not going to let you win again, you know.'
âHe didn't
let
me win. I beat him fair and square.'
âOf course you did, honey,' Albert Hartnell said. âMcCulloch's a clever devil but even he can't rig a dice cup.'
âI asked God to let me win.'
âObviously He heard you,' Albert said, without irony.
âTake me to Kirby's then.'
âI can't.'
âYou mean you won't.'
âNo, honestly, sweetheart, it'd be more than my reputation's worth to sneak you into Kirby's again.'
âWhy?'
âThe boss wouldn't stand for it.'
âYou mean Mama?'
âNo,' Albert said. âI mean Mr Bolitho, the owner.'
âMr Bolitho? Is he the chap in the apron who came to look us over?'
âThe same,' said Albert.
They were walking towards the thoroughfare. Although the sky was clear, the gaslamp-lighters were out and about with their long poles, and midden men were popping in and out of closes, hunched under their baskets. Children paddled in the gutters or gathered about wide-open windows where their mothers leaned and chatted and distributed bits of bread and jam and other little titbits, none fancy. From the slums south of Portland Row came violent shriekings and shoutings, almost indistinguishable from the noise of the shunters that delivered ore to Maclintock's iron works, as if little men and little machines became one now that night had fallen on Clydeside.
To all of which, pretty, frilly Sylvie remained heedless. She clung to Albert's hand, skipping as if she were ten again and not a month short of sixteen.
âNow,' she said, âif you were to take me to Kirby's and I were to talk to Mr Bolitho, tell him how important the work of the Coralâ'
âNo,' Albert said patiently. âNo, honey, no, no.'
She stopped abruptly, dragging the man to a halt.
âI want to,' Sylvie said.
âMr Bolitho isn't interested in our Mission work.'
âI want to.'
âLook,' Albert said, âit isn't just Mr Bolitho. It's the â er â the ladies. The ladies won't like you showing up too often.' He raised his eyebrows, spread one hand, trying to appeal to reason. âI mean, honey, Dada's a member. I admit that I like the odd night out and Kirby's â what I'm trying to say isâ¦'
âI want to.'
Her cheeks glowed. Her features were so knotted with temper that for an instant her grey eyes all but disappeared. Her skin was so fine that it creased as easily as silk or chiffon or, as now, drew tight across the delicate bones of her skull so that she appeared not very young but very, very old.
âSylvie, sweetheart, Dada can't takeâ'
She stamped her foot. âYou can. You can. You can.'
â
Ssshhh, ssshhh
now, honey. Please don't make a scene.'
âTake me to Kirby's.'
âNo.'
âI'll tell Mama.'
âTell Mama what?'
âWhere we go, what we do.'
âMama knows what we do.'
âNot everything.'
âNo,' Albert admitted. âNot everything. But I still can't take you toâ'
âI want to see him, I want to, I want to, I want to.'
Her voice rang from the lean, neat tenements of Portland Row and echoed into the ramshackle courts behind the iron works like a pitiful cry for help. Albert crouched as low as his girth allowed. If he hadn't been wearing his suit, he might have knelt at her feet. He let the basket fall from under his arm, reached out both hands to her hands and, when she stamped and wriggled away, caught her about the waist.
âSylvie, Sylvie, stop it. Stop it, please.'
As soon as he touched her she became calm, so pale and pretty and composed, so sweet and guileless that Albert felt like an ogre.
âListen,' he said, âthe Irish lad won't be there. He only shows up on Fridays along with the other students. Take my word on it, sweetheart, he won't be at Kirby's tonight.'
âTake me, Dada, please.'
She pressed against his palms, tilting her hips. Albert capitulated.
âAll right.' He got to his feet, picked up the basket, gave her his hand. âBut don't blame me if you're disappointed. He won't be there, you know.'
âHe will,' said Sylvie. âI just know he will.'
*Â Â Â *Â Â Â *
In the City Hall in Candleriggs, Dickens had once given readings from his works, Thackeray had delivered a lecture on âThe Four Georges' and, courtesy of a grateful public, David Livingstone had received a banker's draft for two thousand pounds. These fragments of Glasgow's history were embedded not only in the fabric of the building but also in Lindsay's imagination. Seated by her father's side, awaiting the appearance of the Edinburgh Choral Union's orchestra and choir, she tried to picture what Dickens would have looked like at his reading desk, dwarfed by the organ, and wondered how Livingstone had made himself heard in a crowd of three thousand adulatory admirers; on balance she would have preferred to be attending a reading by Dickens than a performance of Elgar's
Judas Maccabeus,
a work she always found depressing.
The hall was three-quarters full before âthe gang' from Harper's Hill made an appearance. Aunt Lilias led them along the aisle and, with fussy little gestures, ushered her remaining sons and daughters into the row. Donald and Grandpappy brought up the rear and Lindsay, to her surprise, soon found herself seated shoulder to shoulder with Cissie.
The organist, Mr Bradley, coaxed notes from the vast golden pipes and the orchestra tuned up in the amphitheatre. From far off behind the scenes floated the sound of a contralto voice â Madame Dumas, perhaps â running through scales. Lindsay's father, alert and excited, rubbed his hands together, leaned over and said to Cissie, âSo you couldn't resist turning out to hear one of Europe's finest choirs?'
âNo, Uncle Arthur. It should be a wonderful evening.'
âWell, I'm certainly looking forward to it,' Arthur said, and sat back.
After a moment Lindsay whispered, âWhat are you doing here, Cissie? I thought you hated Elgar.'
âSpare ticket,' Cissie said. âMartin's. Couldn't let it go to waste. It's not every week one gets the opportunity to hear the ECU in Glasgow.'
âNo, I don't suppose it is,' Lindsay answered.
She was relieved that Cissie wasn't sunk in introspective gloom. That she had deigned to exchange even a polite word seemed to augur a truce in their undeclared war. Lindsay, however, remained guarded.
âI do like your coat,' she said.
âThank you. It's new. Daly's.'
âTailored?'
âOf course.'
The organ uttered a declamatory warning, programmes throughout the hall rustled, the orchestra began to file on to the platform. Arthur rubbed his hands again and exchanged a thumbs-up signal with Donald. From the end of the row Pappy waved his programme, like a racing tout.