The Piper's Tune (32 page)

‘And the ground-floor drawing-room.'

‘What will happen to Miss Runciman?'

‘Nothing,' Lindsay said. ‘She will remain where she is.'

‘And look after us all?'

‘Oh, I see,' said Lindsay. ‘You want us to pay for another servant.'

Arthur hesitated. He was tempted to explain that the cost of change meant nothing to him. He had a queasy feeling, however, that Lindsay had already been tainted by the mercenary Irishman and he was determined not to let them off entirely scot-free.

He said, ‘If Eleanor thinks another servant is necessary, yes.'

‘That will be satisfactory.'

She spoke with a coldness that he had never detected in her before; a first glimpse of how she would be changed, perhaps? He felt the heart go out of him, felt it shrivel like the last orange in the dish.

‘You aren't short of money,' Arthur said. ‘Your income—'

‘We will pay rental too, never fear.'

‘Why do you want to stay here?'

‘To look after you,' Lindsay said.

‘I do not need looking after.'

‘In time, perhaps you will.'

‘Oh!' Arthur said. ‘I was under the impression that this was to be a temporary arrangement.'

‘Are you trying to prevent me from marrying Forbes?'

‘Of course not, not if you're sure that he really is the man for you.'

‘He is. He is.'

‘Very well.' He managed not to sigh. ‘Let me talk this over with Forbes. Then we'll inspect the rooms upstairs and see what alterations are required. When that's in hand you may, if you wish, set a date for the wedding.'

‘How long will it all take?'

‘Not long,' Arthur said.

He knew what his daughter's haste implied: that she was unsure of the untrustworthy longings that she could not interpret or excuse, desires that a well-brought-up young woman could satisfy only with a husband.

‘When can the work be started?' Lindsay asked.

‘As soon as you – you and Forbes – agree on what you want by way of alterations,' Arthur said and then, because he was still her father, added, ‘Where is he, by the way? I thought he was coming round for dinner?'

‘He told me he was,' Lindsay said. ‘We agreed that we would talk to you together.'

‘I see,' Arthur said. ‘Perhaps he just didn't feel up to it.'

‘What do you mean by that?'

‘Nothing, dearest, nothing, nothing.'

‘Forbes isn't afraid of you, you know.'

‘I'm well aware of that,' Arthur said.

‘He may turn up yet,' Lindsay said.

‘If, however, he doesn't appear,' Arthur said, ‘you may tell him that everything's settled.'

‘Is everything settled?'

‘Everything,' Arthur said, ‘except a date.'

‘Would January be too soon?'

‘No,' Arthur said, gravely, ‘January would be just about right.'

*   *   *

It was his first experience of forbidden things. No matter how long he lived Forbes knew there would never be another experience to match it: curiosity could not be satisfied twice. It seemed fitting that it would take place in the apartment in Portland Row where the presence of Sylvie's mama lingered like a whiff of carbolic. From the moment the outer door closed behind them and Forbes realised that Bertie had sanctioned what was about to happen, he felt complete and coherent, no longer patched together.

Sylvie lit the gas jet and removed her hat. She moved quickly. She tossed her hat on to the table and began to unbutton her coat. They had not exchanged a word since they had entered the close. There was nothing left to say, nothing left to negotiate. He did not know what she thought of him, what she wanted from him. He wondered just what he did mean to her, if he really was more than the avatar of her arousal, a means to an end.

The gas jet flared and smoked. The smell layering the soap-smell was as harsh as the roar of the jet itself. Sylvie struggled with her coat. Blonde ringlets framed her face, bobbed on her brow.

Forbes stepped forward, not to help but to trap her. He caught the coat sleeves and knotted them in his fist, pinning her arms behind her. He kissed her. He put his mouth down and let the kiss alight upon her lips. He felt her lips part just enough to allow him her tongue, moist, without taste. He placed his hand on her breast, encased in the grey dress and mysterious undergarments. Then, ashamed of his haste, he released her, let her slip out of the overcoat and toss it too on to the tabletop.

‘Do you want me to take my clothes off?' Sylvie asked.

‘Yes.'

‘Do you want to go into my bedroom?'

‘If you want to.'

‘I will bring a light.'

He remembered the promise she had made to him months ago, how bold her words had seemed, how knowing. She did not seem knowing now, though. She spoke in a whisper, like a bewildered child. That there would be light in the bedroom, a gas jet, did not matter. Sylvie had her own means of compelling desire and of satisfying the wicked fantasies that had chased her out of childhood. By the light of a flaring taper and a stout candle in a brass holder she led him by the hand through the hallway into the bedroom.

She blew out the taper and set it and the candle-holder down upon the edge of the iron guard. Above the fireplace the hunchbacked shadows of bookends flickered on the wallpaper. In the wedge of candlelight Sylvie's throat, face and hair were underlit like that of a painted angel. He no longer burned with a fierce need to grasp and impress. Caught in the aura of her prettiness he was, for a moment, helpless.

‘Do you want me undressed?' she said.

‘Yes, I do.'

‘Do you want to watch me?'

He nodded.

‘Do you want to love me, Forbes?'

He nodded again, dumbly.

The dress was cumbersome. He did not offer to help. He could not have helped even if he had wished to do so; Sylvie was intent upon herself. Every hitch, every delay took him further out of himself too. He was fascinated by Sylvie's mouth, her hair, her slender bare arms, her wide grey guileless eyes. He had no thought of others now, of Lindsay, of Cissie, no recollection of the girls after whom he had lusted and upon whom, in his ignorance, he had tried to foist himself. In that moment Sylvie became unique and irreplaceable and he knew that he would never tire of her.

The unbound corset, the rustling silk petticoats with lacy frills, the awkward arrangement of suspenders, the expert manipulations of her small fingers: he watched her clothing slip away. She undressed unself-consciously, not preening, not posing, arms and shoulders, breast and thighs glimpsed in the shadows, in the candlelight. She seated herself on the side of the bed and removed her boots then peeled her stockings over her knees and calves, leaving nothing to cover her but the woven silk ceinture. She turned away from him, tilted a shoulder, twisted her body and brought the garment away in her hands like a carapace. She dropped it into the darkness by the bed and turned again.

Facing him now she put her arms out by her sides, pressed her fingers into the quilt, gave her head a gentle toss and smiled.

He inched towards her, a half pace to the side to remove his shadow from the smudgy shadows that cloaked her belly and her thighs. Her breasts were small-nippled, pale and contrite, her waist narrow. Her belly, rounding out from her hip-bones and dipping down into her lap, was silky soft and the hair, darkened, more unruly and profuse than he would have imagined.

He was still fully dressed. He wore no hat, no overcoat, but even so he felt coarse and ugly in his tweeds. He stepped closer and clumsily touched her knees.

‘Lie back,' he said.

She lay back across the bed and though he hadn't dared ask it of her, opened her legs in a gesture that was both lewd and beautiful. She lifted her feet, placed them on the quilt and raised her hips.

‘Do you like me?' she enquired.

‘Yes. Yes, I do,' Forbes whispered.

‘Show me,' she said.

He stood helplessly before her, staring down. He was unable to believe what was happening to him, unable to relate his gnarled fantasies to this small individual who had already given him more than he had demanded and who, he felt certain, would give even more before she was done with him.

‘Show me, Forbes, show me,' she hissed.

He put his hands to his trouser buttons then, overcome, knelt before her. He kissed her knees, her thighs, her stomach and breasts while little Sylvie Hartnell, roused by his adoration, gasped and sighed and grappled to bring him into her, to make him part of herself.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

The Winter Rains

The fixing of a wedding date, the purchase of an engagement ring, the family celebration, oddly sober and unmusical, that followed the official announcement, together with Forbes's obsession with ‘getting the house just right' left Lindsay rather out in the cold. She saw little of Forbes in the autumn months and even when they were together they were seldom alone. Matrimonial rituals, it appeared, were not designed to bring a happy couple closer together but to drive them, at least temporarily, apart.

The house rang with the thud of mallets, the rasp of saws and a shrill and constant whistling without which, it seemed, carpenters and joiners could not properly function. Eleanor Runciman retreated to the basement kitchen. Even there she could not avoid the interminable racket and knew that weeks of disturbance lay ahead, for Forbes had told her that woodworkers would be followed by plumbers, plumbers by plasterers and plasterers by painters and decorators, all culled from Franklin's employment roster.

Donald had been less than delighted by this appropriation of part of the labour force. He had pointed out that Martin had paid out of his own pocket for work done on Rosemarket House, where Aurora and he would set up home, and had suggested that Forbes should do the same. An argument ensued between the brothers, and Arthur – who actually agreed with Donald but felt obliged to defend his soon-to-be son-in-law – was drawn into a quarrel that only Pappy's intervention prevented from becoming a feud. He, Pappy, footed the bill for labour and materials and, to be even-handed, offered to do the same for Tom and Cissie in their newly acquired apartment in Sandyford Avenue, an offer that Tom politely but firmly refused.

Domestic matters did not distract the Franklins from turning profit on their current contracts, in meeting delivery dates and conducting trials to the satisfaction of their several clients, including Mr Kimura, who turned out to be an even worse sailor than Martin and had to be ferried off the
Hashitaka
before she had covered a sea mile out into the Gareloch. There was another launching almost identical to the first except that the little Kimuras did not put in an appearance and the weather was at its worst, a day of blinding grey rain driven by a strong southwesterly. Lunch afterwards was a damp affair and that evening, for no obvious reason, Lindsay had a fit of panic about her wedding and wept into Eleanor Runciman's broad, boned bosom.

No panic for Martin and Aurora Swann. They were married in style in St James's Church in Aurora's home parish and everyone who was anyone in the shipping trades received an invitation to the service and to the reception in the Congleton Halls thereafter. The Swanns, it seemed, were intent on setting a benchmark for grandeur and expense that the Franklins would be hard pushed to top. Tom and Cissie were quite prepared to settle for a quiet wedding in St Anne's but Lilias wouldn't hear of it and immediately swung herself on to a new heading, trading dressmakers for caterers and nagging Donald almost nightly to allow her to expand the guest list and increase the budget.

The Calders' recently purchased apartment in Sandyford Avenue was swiftly taking shape. Electrical wiring was installed for lighting, the old lead gas pipes were replaced and Tom personally tackled the erection of shelves in kitchen, bathroom and the servants' pantry, and made a jolly good job of it too.

In Harper's Hill, with Martin and Mercy gone and Cissie soon to follow, the mansion had already begun to seem empty and Lilias had taken to dogging her three remaining children about the place as if to make sure that they too had not flown the coop or, like Cissie, were not about to be spirited away by some stranger and leave her to stare vacantly at Donald down the length of the dining-table night after night.

In contrast Arthur and his housekeeper would have been only too pleased to have an opportunity to stare vacantly at each other over the soup bowls. The house in Brunswick Crescent had been turned into a Bedlam and even after the workmen had left for the day there would be Forbes McCulloch to contend with, Forbes stalking about with renovation plans tucked under his arm, a pencil behind his ear, Forbes pointing to this, kicking at that, complaining loud and long about shoddy workmanship or that some minor detail had been overlooked in the fulfilment of his grand design.

‘Have you been up there recently, Eleanor?'

‘Yes, Mr Arthur, I have.'

‘How many rooms do you make it?'

‘Six, I believe.'

‘Hmm, that's what I counted, too. Six, plus the downstairs drawing-room. Dear God, I didn't realise we had so much unused space in the house.'

‘Knocking down head walls and inserting steel beams does appear to be having the desired effect. Did you not approve the plans, sir?'

‘Plans, what plans? The little beggar keeps amending them every time I turn my back. I don't know what he thinks he's building; a damned transatlantic liner has less bunk space, for heaven's sake.'

‘Have you had a word with him?' Eleanor asked.

‘A word with him? How can I have a word with him when I can't be sure what he's up to from one day to the next or, for that matter, even
find
him half the time when he's crawling about among the sawdust and shavings under what used to be my roof. I pale to think what it will be like when the painters arrive.'