The Piper's Tune (33 page)

‘Please,' Eleanor said, ‘don't.'

‘Well,' Arthur sighed, ‘it can only get worse before it gets better.'

‘
Will
it get better, do you think?' Eleanor asked.

‘You know,' her master answered, ‘I'm beginning to have my doubts.'

*   *   *

Lindsay caught him as he strode down the hall with his overcoat slung over his shoulder and his hat in his hand. ‘Forbes, where are you going?'

‘I have work to do at home.'

At least he had the decency to pause and, hand upon the door handle, let her catch up with him. ‘Work? What sort of work?' Lindsay said. ‘Haven't you done enough for one day?'

‘It's business,' Forbes said. ‘The Admiralty tender.'

‘What Admiralty tender?'

‘We're on for a new type of torpedo-boat and Donald is very concerned that we get our figures right first time.'

‘First I've heard of it.'

‘Donald's playing it close to the chest.'

‘So close it hasn't even come up in management meetings?'

‘It will, it will, quite soon I expect.'

Lindsay moved closer but did not touch him. He did not take his hand from the door handle. ‘I thought you were staying for supper?'

‘I can't, honey. Truly.' He smiled indulgently. ‘You see how it is?'

‘No, I don't, Forbes. All I see is the back of you these days.'

‘Not for much longer, I promise.'

‘Why are you doing this?'

‘Doing what, Linnet?'

‘Ignoring me.'

‘Oh, now, I'm not ignoring you. Everything I do is for the both of us.'

‘Does that include borrowing money from me?'

‘I thought I'd explained that,' Forbes said, not quite crossly. ‘It's only until I get my hands on what I'm owed. Won't be long now, Linnet. By the way, you haven't told your father, have you?'

‘Of course not. He'd be furious if he thought I was lending you money.'

‘He's just too old-fashioned to understand how things are.'

‘I'm not sure
I
understand how things are.'

‘Sharing. What's yours is mine, and vice versa,' Forbes said. ‘If you really don't trust me to pay you back…'

‘It isn't that.'

‘What is it?'

‘I just – I don't know,' Lindsay said. ‘I just never see you these days, to be alone with you, that's all.'

‘You'll be alone with me soon enough, honey, all snug in our nice new suite of rooms, just you and me and no one else. I'm doing it for you, Lindsay. I mean, I don't care if I live in a garret. But that isn't what I want for you. I only want the best for you.' He released the door handle and adjusted the roll of papers under his arm. He remained encumbered with coat and hat, though, and his caress was awkward. ‘Look, I'm sorry. Here, give me a kiss and a cuddle, will you, please?'

Obediently she put an arm about him and kissed him on the mouth. She could sense his urgency but his lips were warm and he let the kiss linger just long enough to appease her. She was the one who drew away.

‘There now,' he said, ‘wasn't that nice?'

‘Yes,' Lindsay agreed, ‘it was.'

‘Now,' he tugged open the door, ‘I really must toddle.'

‘Forbes,' Lindsay said, ‘why do we need six rooms?'

When he grinned she remembered why she had fallen in love with him.

‘For the little 'uns,' he told her.

‘Little 'uns?'

‘Our children, silly,' Forbes said, then, cramming his hat on to his head, hurried down the steps into Brunswick Crescent and, in a moment, was gone.

*   *   *

St Mungo's Mansions were far from the river, almost on the city boundary, in fact. East of the tall, sharp-cornered building with its chip-carved frontage was a sprawl of less salubrious tenements occupied by workers from the locomotive repair shops. To the west, however, beyond the thin, metallic strip of the old sugar canal, lay a vista of rolling green hills and distant mountains that Forbes hoped would give the girl pleasure and bring a breezy touch of colour to her pale cheeks.

He had selected the property with care and forethought. The building was less than ten years old, well tended and solidly constructed. Its rear entrance was discreetly screened by trees so that he could come and go as he pleased without being too obvious about it. There were churches, mission halls and public houses within walking distance and at least three music-halls no more than a halfpenny tram ride away. The opening of the new electrical tram-line had clinched it: he could travel from the city centre in a matter of twenty minutes and, with one change of car, be home in Brunswick Park in half an hour. The rent was considerably less than he would have paid for a third-floor West End apartment and, best of all, the place came fully furnished, right down to bed linen.

He opened the door with a latchkey and ushered Sylvie inside.

The hallway was papered in heavy plum-coloured wallpaper. A potted plant in an enamel bowl occupied a blank corner. There was a huge coat rack with a mirror in the centre, a grandfather clock and other bits and pieces of bric-à-brac, none tawdry. The kitchen to the rear was bright and airy, parlour and dining-room even more so. There were three bedrooms with brass bedsteads, horsehair mattresses, clean sheets, quilts and spreads.

Forbes put his hand upon her waist and showed her round. He could sense her apprehension like a kind of vibration but reckoned that he had done well by her and that once she got used to it she would be happy here. He steered her into the parlour and let her test the armchairs and the sofa. She did not bounce upon them, did not squeak or squeal. Her sweet little face was puckered with concentration as if she were trying on a new dress or a new pair of shoes.

At length, Forbes said, ‘Do you like it, sweetheart?'

‘Has Dada seen it yet?'

‘He came last night, I believe. Didn't he tell you?'

‘I haven't seen him since yesterday morning. I was asleep before he arrived home last night. I think he had been drinking again. He misses Mama so much, you know.'

‘A blow for him, yes, a terrible blow,' Forbes said. ‘It'll do him no harm to get out of your old house into somewhere new, somewhere like this.'

‘Will you stay with me?'

‘What?' said Forbes. ‘Now?'

‘Stay here with me?'

‘Sure and I will,' Forbes said. ‘Whenever I can.'

‘Will you be here when I come to stay?'

‘When you move in, you mean?' Forbes said. ‘I will do my very, very best to be here to welcome you. If I'm not, though, I'll come just as soon as I can.'

‘Dada says you're going to look after us.'

Forbes waved his hand, shaping a circle in the air. ‘Is this not looking after you, sweetheart?'

‘Care for me.'

‘Care for you? God, Sylvie, don't you know I love you?'

‘And I love you.'

He experienced a tremor of annoyance at the wan, matter-of-fact manner in which she accepted what was being given her. Had Bertie not told her what this place was costing every month? Did she not realise that a girl in her position could hardly expect to do better, that there were thousands of young women who would have been overjoyed to be brought to live in a brand-new, well-furnished apartment, thousands of young women who would have been delighted to have him for a lover on any sort of terms? Irritation brought a surge of sexual longing in its wake.

All he had to do was look at her, not listen, just look at the colour of her eyes, the curve of her lips, her satin skin. How many other girls could claim that they were desired with such unreasonable intensity? On impulse he kissed her and inserted his tongue into her mouth. He fumbled at his trousers, released himself, let her see how urgently he needed her attentions. He was not obliged to pay homage to her refined sensibilities; unlike Cissie, unlike Lindsay, she carried no weight of prudence or, he had discovered, of modesty.

She would do anything he wished her to do.

Provided he loved her.

Holding her against him, rocking against her, he said, ‘Now look, I have to know, dearest. Is this it? Is this the place for you? If it's not…'

‘What? You'll find another?' Sylvie said. ‘Ah-hah, ah-hah.' She wagged a finger in his face. ‘You will never find another like me, though, will you?'

‘That's true.'

‘Will you, Forbes?'

‘No, damn it. Never,' he told her. ‘
Do
you like it here?'

‘Ye-eees.'

‘Will you be happy?'

‘Will
I
make
you
happy?'

‘Sylvie, please answer me. Will you be happy here?'

‘Perfectly so,' she said, then, still dressed in coat and bonnet and wearing her grey suede gloves, she knelt before him like a slave.

*   *   *

Albert opened the door. Bleary-eyed, haggard and unshaven, he was clad in a nightshirt, bedsocks and a greasy old overcoat in lieu of a dressing-gown. He looked, Tom thought, absolutely terrible. He managed a smile, though, and signalled Tom to follow him into the kitchen.

To Tom's dismay he found that the room had been stripped of every stick of furniture. God knows, it had been bleak enough in Florence's day but now, with even the linoleum peeled away, it was nothing but rough floorboards and bare walls. Albert ate soup not from a bowl at the table – there was no table – but directly from a blackened pot upon the side of the stove. A crust of bread and a bottle of milk stout made up the elements of his supper.

‘Can't offer you much, old son,' Albert said. ‘Share my stout with you if you like.'

‘So it's true,' Tom said. ‘She has gone.'

‘Ah, yes. You got the letter. She said she would write to you before she departed but I wasn't certain she would do it. You know what she's like, a wee darlin' most of the time but with a mind of her own when it suits her.'

‘I received the letter this morning,' Tom said. ‘I came as soon as I could. I didn't expect her to be gone already.'

‘Got the offer. Took the chance.'

‘Abandoned you?'

‘Oh, no, no. I urged her, I pressed her to go.'

‘When did she leave?'

‘Yesterday forenoon. I took her to the railway station myself.' Albert rested one foot on the guard rail of the stove and dipped a spoon into the broth pot. ‘Shed a tear too, I may tell you, to see her going off like that, all on her own, clutching her little bag. Florence…' He swallowed, wiped his moustache with a knuckle. ‘Florence – ah, well, you know how it is, Tom, you know how it is to lose a wife when you least expect it.'

Tom looked around for somewhere to sit and finally propped himself against the sink. He glanced round, frowning; even Florence's scrubbing brushes were gone.

‘What happened to everything?' he said.

‘Sold.'

‘All of it?'

‘Except for some of the clothes. I kept some of the clothes.'

‘Are things that desperate, Albert?'

‘Not desperate, no. I just wanted rid of the stuff. I wasn't going to give it away, was I? Florence would have turned in her grave, bless her, if I'd just given it away. Sold it down Paddy's market. Price' – he shrugged – ‘reasonable.'

‘What about Sylvie's wardrobe?'

‘Sold it too. Furniture fetches.'

‘I mean her dresses, her shoes,' Tom said.

‘She took them with her.'

‘All of them?'

‘I got some to post off later.'

‘Why didn't you tell me what was happening?' Tom said. ‘If you needed money for her railway train fare or her lodging then I—'

‘You've done enough,' Albert said. ‘More than enough.' He paused. ‘Besides, you'll be needing all your hard-earned once you've got a wife to support and a house to look after.'

He ate soup noisily, his back to Tom.

Tom said, ‘I suppose Sylvie spotted the engagement announcement in the
Glasgow Herald?
'

‘I expect that's it,' Albert said.

Tom said, ‘Is that why she accepted the post with the Coral Strand?'

‘Uh?'

‘Was she offended because I intend to marry again?'

‘She didn't say much about that,' Albert said. ‘She misses her mama. She wants to do right by her mama. When the position in London was offered, she jumped at it. She always had it in mind to work for the Mission, you know. I was never all that for it, but her mama was. Her mama would have done anything for the Coral Strand. Now, God rest her, she has given up her daughter to God's cause.'

‘So my engagement to Miss Franklin…'

‘She isn't bitter, Sylvie. She'd have wished you well. She did, in fact. She did wish you well. Last thing she said to me before she left: “Tell Papa I wish him well.” Last words to me at the railway station.'

‘Who offered her the position?'

‘Mr Chappell.'

‘May I see the letter?' Tom said.

Albert pushed the soup pot aside. ‘What letter?'

‘From Mr Chappell.'

‘I think Sylvie took it with her. Had an address on it, yes.'

‘What address?'

‘An address in London.'

‘Albert, are you lying to me?'

‘No, Tom, I ain't lying.' He wiped his moustache again and, with a little grunt of resignation, dug his hands into his overcoat pockets. ‘She don't want you to have it.'

‘I don't believe you.'

‘It's true, I swear,' Albert said. ‘I told her, I said, “Your papa's going to want to know all about what's happening to you, how it's working out for you in London.” And she said, “No, he has done enough for me. He has his own life to lead now and a new wife to look out for. I will not have him burdened. I am going to do God's work and God will look after me.”'