The Piper's Tune (29 page)

‘Months,' Albert said. ‘Months and months. Since the first.'

‘The first what?'

‘Since you first started making eyes at our Sylvie.' He glanced around at the bar again and made an ineffectual signal to the barmaid who seemed to have been struck deaf and blind.

‘The first
what,
Bertie?'

Albert said, ‘You may not have much of an opinion of me, Irish, but I'm not so careless as to let my daughter be wheeled away by a man I know nothing about, not even for an hour or two.'

Forbes drank a mouthful of black stout. ‘Listen, Bertie, I haven't laid a glove on her.'

‘I know. That's what she's complaining about.'

‘
She's
complaining? Sylvie's complaining?'

‘Loud and long.'

‘Jesus!'

‘She's besotted with you,' Albert stated. ‘And I want to know what you're going to do about it.'

‘Do about it?'

‘Are your intentions honourable, or what?'

‘If you mean am I going to marry her then the answer's no.'

‘I didn't expect it to be otherwise,' Albert said, ‘not when you're hooked up with a nice young lady, a nice
wealthy
young lady like Lindsay Franklin.'

‘Who the hell told…'

Albert tapped the side of his nose with his forefinger. ‘We knows, you know, Florence and me. Makes it our business to know these things.'

‘Is that why you—'

‘Trusted you?' Albert said. ‘Of course it is. If you can't trust a chap who's practically engaged to one of the Franklins who can you trust? I mean, what would a nice, wealthy young lady like Miss Franklin say if she found out that you'd been squiring another girl to tea at the Imperial?'

‘I'm not marrying Lindsay Franklin for her money,' Forbes blurted out. ‘I don't need her money. Damn it, I have money enough of my—'

He bit off the boast, aghast at his own stupidity. He had walked right into it. He blinked at Albert, waiting for the axe to fall, for the fatuous smile, the wink, the setting of terms. Panic possessed him, wave after wave in those few seconds when he realised that he had given himself away, then it receded, rushed away like water from a sluice and suddenly he felt very clearheaded.

‘Bertie,' Forbes said, ‘are we making a financial arrangement here?'

‘You know,' said Albert, ‘I do believe we are.'

*   *   *

The launching of any vessel, no matter how small, is fraught with the possibility of disaster. In the week preceding the arrival of the Japanese Naval Ambassador, Mr Tiroshumi Kimura, his wife, six of his children and several uniformed representatives of the Nipponese Empire, Donald Franklin became very anxious indeed. With two more TBDs under construction and three on the slate, Donald knew how important it was to impress the paymasters.

He also knew what sticklers the Japanese were for protocol and consulted by telephone two commercial shipping agents who gave him the low-down on the sort of ceremony that would appeal to foreigners and advised him to learn a few words of Japanese with which to greet his guests when they stepped off the overnight sleeper from London.

Lindsay had charge of arrangements for the formal luncheon. She plumped for fish, shellfish, pork and a variety of exotic trimmings, such as artichokes, quinces and green plums. She hired a chef and staff from the Barbary to serve lunch for fifty in the mould loft which, as it happened, was the only space big enough to accommodate such a large party.

Pappy Owen, wise fellow, had taken himself off to Strathmore. Without his steadying hand management meetings deteriorated into discussions about whether or not the christening bottle should contain wine, sake or holy water and whether or not the Reverend Brough would be prepared to bless a heathen craft. Mr Kimura solved this problem by indicating that the London party would include – his words – ‘a parson' and that the Franklins need not worry about offending the gods of the river and the sea, which were just about the last things that Donald was worried about offending.

It was all Arthur could do to keep Donald from blowing a valve, particularly as the Japanese would be three days in Glasgow to tour the Great Exhibition and Donald didn't think that his ability to bow and scrape would stretch that far. It was all very well for Arthur, Donald declared: all Arthur had to worry about was greasing the standing way and sliding cradle and building the launching platform, tasks that could safely be delegated to the foremen, for, Japanese or not, a boat was a boat and the foremen had the procedure off pat.

According to Tom the acid test would come not with the launch but after the destroyer had been fitted out and armed. Baron Yamamoto had demanded a maximum speed of thirty knots and, Tom said, if Donald thought that the launch party would be difficult to please just wait until he encountered the squadron of Japanese officials who would turn out for the trials.

‘Are you teasing my dear old papa, Tom?' Cissie asked.

‘No, I'm perfectly serious.'

‘Why is this boat so important?'

‘Because the Japanese have money and are willing to spend it,' Tom said. ‘There's a strong rumour going about that their government intends to invest two million in Britain's shipyards over the next five years.'

‘Yen?' said Cissie.

‘Pounds,' said Tom.

‘I'll have to be nice to them then, I suppose?'

‘That you will, dearest,' Tom told her. ‘That you will.'

As it happened it was impossible not to be nice to the Japanese. Mr Kimura was a perfect gentleman and he, his wife and each of his six children spoke almost perfect English. He had been a naval attaché in Britain for the best part of ten years before his elevation to Naval Ambassador and had been resident in Dulwich for so long that all his children, even the littlest, behaved more like Westminster choristers than fierce sons of Nippon.

The sun managed to blink through moments before the Franklin brothers ushered the Japanese contingent up the short steep wooden steps to the canvas-draped platform where, hanging from scarlet cords, a bottle of Dom Ruinart champagne rubbed shoulders with a small porcelain flask containing some mysterious liquid that the ‘parson' had brought along with him. All the Franklins were present, all save Mercy who was four months pregnant and had elected to stay at home. Below the platform workmen with mallets waited to knock away the dog-shores as soon as the ship had been blessed and Madam Kimura had done her bit with ribbons and draw-cords.

Across the bow of the
Hashitaka
hung an odd circular cloth cage of red and white stripes which, a moment after the bottles crumbled against the plate and the ship was released, ripped open to free eight white doves that fluttered away over the heads of the onlookers and circled around the destroyer as she went down the launching way; also a shower of flower petals that drifted like snowflakes over the heads and shoulders of the spectators, an unusual touch that Donald feared would rouse the shipwrights to raucous laughter. Not a bit of it: even the most hardened among them fell silent at the sight, as if they were just as superstitious as the foreigners and believed in a blessing of birds and flowers. The
Hashitaka
shuddered when her hull struck the water, then, with a dip and lift of her bows, she lunged bravely out into the river to be picked up by the tugs and steered away to Copeland's fitting-out basin a quarter of a mile away.

Cheering continued. Little Kimuras waved Union Jacks and Rising Suns, one in each hand in respectful equilibrium. Mr Kimura smiled and bowed to the uniforms present as if he, and he alone, had been responsible for seeing the new destroyer safely off to sea. Under cover of the canvas, Cissie sought for Tom Calder's hand and gave it an affectionate squeeze while, just in front of his daughter, Donald let out his breath and leaning towards his brother murmured, ‘Thank God that's over.'

‘Hmm,' Arthur answered. ‘One down and five to go.'

The party assembled in order of precedence and began to file towards the steps, Donald and Arthur bowing and deferring to their guests while in no formal order at all the Franklins and managers fell in behind.

The
Hashitaka
was still visible, still being manoeuvred into the deep channel by the skilful tugs. She looked well in the water, Lindsay thought, not large but spry and pugnacious even without her armaments. Lindsay paused to admire the Franklins' latest production and, at that moment, realised that she had lost Forbes. She glanced round, did not discover him at first, then, stepping back a pace or two, found him pressed against the corner of the platform rail. His hands were clasped on the woodwork, elbows raised up like chicken wings. He was staring down into the roped enclosure from which family and friends of the workforce were permitted to watch the proceedings. A hundred or so women and small children, done up in best bonnets and shawls, were still milling about, waving to husbands, fathers and sons now that the show was over and the great and the good had all but disappeared.

The girl, and the man too, were obvious. He, though not tall, had a bulky bearing enhanced by a high-crowned hat and fulsome moustache. Although the day was warm he wore a brown alpaca overcoat thrown open to show off an ornate waistcoat and heavy gold-plated watch-chain. He had the girl by the hand, hugged close to him. For an instant, Lindsay thought she was a child, then, looking more closely, realised that she was older than her daintiness suggested. She was extremely, almost excessively pretty in the pale pink, rosebud fashion that prevailed on Christmas cards and in gallery pictures of angels, delicate but so scrubbed that in her tight little plaid pelisse and matching tammy she appeared almost sinfully wholesome.

‘Forbes?'

He spun round abruptly.

‘Forbes, who are they?' Lindsay asked.

‘Who?'

‘The man and the girl?'

He did not look, did not glance downward. He gathered Lindsay with a hand on her upper arm and hastily steered her away from the rail; not quite hastily enough, however, to prevent Lindsay from noticing that the girl in the plaid pelisse raised one lace glove and with a gesture so tiny and coy that it seemed more infantile than childish, fluttered her fingers in Forbes's direction.

‘I've no idea,' Forbes said.

‘They seem to know you,' Lindsay said.

‘I don't know what you're talking about.'

‘The man and the pretty little girl, they seem to know who you are.'

‘Well, damn it, I don't know them,' Forbes told her gruffly and, almost lifting her off her feet, steered her along the platform and down the steep wooden steps to the yard.

*   *   *

Miss Runciman brought her the news. She heard nothing of the muffled commotion on the staircase or in the hallway, whispered voices, the scuffle of her father's bedroom slippers as he hurried down to the telephone. By the time Miss Runciman wakened her, therefore, the inexorable ritual was already under way.

She heard someone breathing and, not alarmed, opened her eyes. The room was in half light, for hazy autumnal cloud had not yet burned off and the hour, Lindsay sensed, was early. Miss Runciman stood over her, big, mannish chin exaggerated by the angle. She was dressed not in brown but in black, the black pearl buttons that cinched the neck of her dress mirroring her solemn, shiny-black eyes. Lindsay knew at once what had happened.

‘Is it Nanny?' she murmured.

‘Yes, my dear,' Eleanor Runciman answered. ‘I'm afraid she's gone.'

Lindsay was no longer drowsy but she had no inclination to slide out of bed, even to shift position. She lay on her back and thought – or tried to think – what it would be like not to have Nanny to look after her, though Nanny had not been Nanny for many months, many years. That she had survived so long had been a miracle, Papa said, not of willpower but of lassitude, as if at the end she had been too weary to let go. Now, last wispy breath released, she was gone, lying still and tranquil upstairs, a burden to no one.

‘Who found her?' Lindsay said.

‘I did, when I took her tea.'

‘Has my father been to look at her?'

‘Yes.' The housekeeper's voice lowered by half an octave, not sad but sonorous. ‘He has sent for the doctor and the minister.'

‘The minister?'

‘Mr Mackenzie did ask to be informed.'

‘What can the minister do for her now?' Lindsay asked.

‘Nothing,' Miss Runciman said. ‘He will say a prayer for our comfort.'

She put out a hand and would have stroked Lindsay's brow if Lindsay had permitted it. There was nothing possessive in the gesture, nothing harmful, but
she
wasn't Nanny and it was only Nanny's hand that Lindsay wanted, Nanny's hand to comfort her for Nanny's death. Anger welled up in her, a moist, crackling sort of anger at Eleanor Runciman's presumption. She thrust the housekeeper's arm away and bounced out of bed.

‘I don't need his stupid prayers,' Lindsay declared. ‘And I don't need you telling me how sorry you are. You hated her. Don't pretend.'

‘Oh!'

Miss Runciman's lips remained fixed around the utterance. She turned and headed for the door while Lindsay, too selfish to recognise hurt, reached for her robe and slippers.

*   *   *

‘You must have been fond of the old bird,' Forbes said, ‘to make such a song and dance about her popping off. I mean, she
was
old and it wasn't unexpected, and she didn't appear to suffer at the end.'

‘I wish I'd been with her, though,' Lindsay said.

‘You couldn't be with her all the time. She pegged out too long for her own good, if you ask me,' Forbes said. ‘You're not feeling guilty, are you?'

‘No, not guilty, no.'

‘Nothing you could have done. She had a decent innings, really. You must admit that it was long past her time to go. I'm surprised at Runciman, though…'