The Piper's Tune (34 page)

‘Sylvie said that?'

‘Her exact words. Didn't she hint as much in her letter?'

‘No.'

‘She ain't yours no longer, Tom. She ain't mine either. She's gone off to do the work she was trained for, was born for, you might say.'

‘Will she be sent to the foreign field?'

‘I don't know, do I?' Albert said. ‘After her training, perhaps.'

‘Where is she staying in London?'

‘In the Coral Strand's hostel in Holborn.'

‘Does she pay to lodge there?'

‘No, not while she's under training.'

Tom nodded. He was filled with guilt: guilt kept doubt at bay. He wanted desperately to see his daughter again, to talk with her, to be assured that it was not his marriage that had driven her away, had precipitated her into a career that seemed unsuited to such a delicate wee thing. He had been to Africa, if not the Islands, and he knew how bad the tropics could be, how dangerous, how unhealthy, and suspected that his daughter's illusions would soon be shattered and her heart broken by the work.

He was gripped by terrible emptiness, a fear that had no base or bottom but that seemed to go down and down inside him, like a pit shaft. He felt bleak, as bleak as Albert looked. He crossed his arms over his chest, closed his fists on his shoulders and drew in a shuddering breath.

Albert said, ‘It's what she wants, Tom. It's what'll make her happy.'

‘And you, how will you manage without her?'

‘I'll make out somehow.'

‘This Mr Chappell, didn't he offer you a position in London?'

‘He did not,' Albert said. ‘I expect I might go there, though, to London. Might find something to keep body and soul together. Work for the Mission on a voluntary basis just like I did here. Be near to Sylvie, case she needs me.'

‘You're not – can't you stay here?'

Albert tugged his hands from the overcoat pockets. Thrust out by his massive belly, the nightshirt protruded before him. His shins, Tom noticed, were as hairy as his forearms.

‘How can I?' Albert declared. ‘How can I stay here when all there are is memories, everywhere, memories? I've lost them both, Tom, and there's nothing left for it but to start out somewhere new. Somewhere cheap.'

‘Don't you have work, a job?'

‘You know I don't.'

‘Albert, are you broke?'

‘I'm not asking for nothing. You don't owe me a penny, Tom Calder. You done well by our lass and for that Florence and me were eternally grateful. But it was my pleasure, my privilege I mean, to share what I had with Sylvie. Now it's over and all I have left – well, you know how it is? You done all right. You stuck with your career and you've earned your reward. Marry your young lady, I say, and be happy. I've had my high days, Tom, my days in the sun. Don't you fret about me. I'll be all right, right as bloomin' rain, old Albert.'

‘If it's work, perhaps I can find you some…'

‘No!' Albert jerked his head. ‘No, that would never do. You've got your own life to lead and you don't want no rusty anchor holding you down.'

‘When do you have to leave here?'

‘Tomorrow.'

Tom nodded. He slipped a hand into his vest pocket. He had taken the notes from the reserve that he kept in a cash-box in a locked drawer in his room at the Queensview. He had thought that he would find Sylvie still here, had, in all honesty, expected to find her with her hand out. But she had taken her own direction, had selected her own destiny. Nothing he could do about it. No more could he give her. Perhaps in a week or two he might write to Mr Chappell at the Coral Strand's London headquarters and send a donation in Sylvie's name.

Meanwhile he brought the three ten pound banknotes from his pocket, hesitated, then, extending his hand, offered them to Albert.

‘I can't leave you like this,' Tom said. ‘Let me help.'

‘No, Tom. No. I still got my pride.'

‘Please take it. For my sake.'

‘I – I can't.'

‘For Sylvie's sake then.'

Albert started down at the floorboards.

Tom said, ‘Sylvie wouldn't want to see you stranded.'

He sighed, a little roar. ‘You're right, of course. Sylvie would want me to have it. She would be charitable. When I write to her I'll tell her what you've done, how kind you've been.'

‘When will you write to her?'

‘When I'm settled.'

‘Will you also let me know where you are, Albert?'

‘If that's your wish.'

‘It is.'

He came forward, wrapped an arm about Tom and hugged him briefly. ‘You're a good man, Tom Calder,' Albert muttered. ‘A damned good man. God knows, you done the best you could. I wish you a marriage as happy as my own.'

They shook hands.

‘Albert.'

‘Uh?'

‘When you're in touch, tell Sylvie I'm here if ever she needs me.'

‘I will, Tom,' Albert Hartnell said. ‘Rest assured, I will.'

*   *   *

He let himself in with the copy of McCulloch's latchkey that he'd had made in a cobbler's shop on the Maryhill Road late yesterday evening. He entered the hall and, groping, found the electrical light switch, then he called out, ‘It's only me, dearest. It's only Dada. Where are you?'

‘In here.'

He followed her voice into the largest of the three bedrooms and found her propped up in bed. She was clad in a fancy nightdress with puffy sleeves and did not bother to cover herself when he entered. She had taken the ribbons from her hair and, with the rays of an electrical lamp around her, seemed to be burnished in light gold leaf. Through the fabric of the gown he could make out the protrusions of her breasts and he thought how lucky a man McCulloch was to have this treasure all to himself.

She was reading, not a novel but a textbook, a big blue clothbound tome with a Roman gentleman in a toga gilt-stamped on the front. Her eyes were not grey tonight but dark and slaty and she looked, Albert thought, weary and more in need of sleep than education.

He went to the bed and seated himself upon it.

She looked up from the book. ‘Did Papa come?'

‘He did.'

‘Did he receive my letter?'

‘Indeed, he did.'

‘Did he swallow the story?'

‘Yes, swallowed it in one gulp.'

‘How much?' Sylvie said.

‘Twenty quid. Under the circumstances I didn't feel it wise to push.'

She placed a forefinger in the book to mark her place and held out her hand. ‘Give it here, please.'

‘I thought I would put it into the bank first thing tomorrow.'

‘Here.'

He laid the notes, still folded, across her palm and watched her fingers close on them. She obviously knew that he had diddled her and he waited for a reprimand, an argument. She seemed satisfied with the sum her papa had given her, though, the parting gift that would separate them once and for all.

‘Did Forbes…' Albert began.

‘Yes. He came. He brought me.'

Albert risked brushing a lock of hair from her brow.

‘Goodnight, Dada,' Sylvie said pointedly.

‘Goodnight, dear,' Albert said, and kissed her cheek.

He rose reluctantly and took himself to the door. It was a fine apartment but still strange and he was still lost in it. His bedroom, at one remove from Sylvie's, was small but comfortable. It had a single brass bedstead, a high-boy, a dressing-table and a washstand. It did not have Florence in it, though, and at this lonely hour of the night he missed his wife more than he cared to admit, not only for her company but for the fact that she, and she alone, had kept Sylvie from overwhelming him.

He paused in the doorway on the edge of the vast hall with its tick-tocking clock and fleshy pot plant, its gigantic hat-stand and oval mirror. He looked at his foster-daughter, Tom Calder's child, more beautiful now than pretty, her pert little chin raised, her slate grey eyes fixed grudgingly upon him.

‘What is it, Albert?' Sylvie enquired. ‘What do you want now?'

‘Have you said your prayers yet?'

‘Not yet.'

‘When you do…'

‘What?'

‘Put in a word for me,' said Albert.

*   *   *

It seemed to Cissie that the Great Exhibition had gone on for ever, that when it closed not just the summer of 1901 but her youth would close with it, vanishing into memory like the bands and fireworks, the water-splash and gondolas, switched off like the sweeping beam of the Schuckert searchlight that flashed over every corner of the site and even penetrated the velvet draperies of the mansions on Park Circus and the corner of Harper's Hill.

Since August the 'Groveries had been illuminated after dusk but now the rains had arrived, the winter rains, and the lights had a bleary shimmer that indicated an imminent return to melancholy reality for the city and its citizens.

Closing-night looting was anticipated. The police would be out in force to check the stampede of souvenir hunters. Tom and Cissie had decided that they would forgo the last-night concert and tuck themselves away from the festivities. To make up for it, however, Tom had invited her to dine in the Royal Bungalow four days before the gates were finally locked.

It was already cold and Cissie wore furs, lisle stockings and Russian boots to walk down from the Hill into the park. In the elegant cloakroom of the Bungalow she changed into the dress and shoes that she had carried with her in a waterproof bag and joined Tom at a table by the window. Rain poured from the restaurant's slanted eaves and the wind blew stridently across the river, making the boats dip on their mooring ropes and whipping the water about the weir. Wild weather was not without its excitement, however, and when they had finished eating and had drunk a bottle of wine between them, they went out for a last tour of the glistening piazzas and leafless walkways lit by swaying lanterns and the broad, ethereal beam of the Schuckert.

Cissie was snug enough inside her furs and Mica hood but Tom, carrying her shoe bag over his shoulder like a knapsack, was soon soaked. He was not dismayed by the discomfort, though, or too cold to enjoy their last parade before the Great Exhibition was diligently packed away. He kissed Cissie under the boughs of the chestnut trees and, because there were few folk around, kissed her again in the centre of the main piazza, his legs spread and braced like a mountaineer's against the swirling wind, his lips wet against her wet cheeks, both so wet and so exhilarated that they laughed and, with arms linked, set off for the gate that would lead them home.

As they strode along arm in arm, Tom said, ‘My daughter has gone to London, by the way.'

‘Has she?' said Cissie brightly.

‘To train as a Mission worker.'

‘Really! That will suit her very well.'

‘Yes,' Tom said. ‘I do believe it will.'

‘Did you talk to her before she left?'

‘Unfortunately, no.'

‘She will write to you, will she not?'

‘I expect so,' Tom said.

‘But she will not be at our wedding?'

‘No.'

‘Tom?'

‘Hmm?'

‘Tom, I can't say I'm sorry, not actually sorry.'

‘Why?' he said, then, hugging her arm, added, ‘No, I know why.'

‘Do you?' Cissie said.

‘I think you just want me for yourself.'

She laughed and lifted her face and let him kiss her on the nose almost without breaking stride. ‘What a conceited pig you are, Tom Calder.'

‘It's the truth, though, isn't it?'

‘Of course it is,' said Cissie. ‘But I'm not telling you that.'

They walked on, Cissie and he, past the concert hall and the bandstand, the Russian village, their heads down, battling together into the rain.

He remembered how it had been in the not-so-old days when Sylvie too had loved him without question; then he thought of her as she had been that Sunday by the fountain before he had sent the postcard from Portsmouth, that afternoon when he had seen Sylvie for what she was, a stranger.

In five weeks' time he would be married to Cissie Franklin and as secure as a man could ever hope to be, any man who was loved as he was, that is. Cissie would never know that he had almost fallen in love with her cousin Lindsay, that he regretted the putting away of that love, the wistful evocation of what might have been and never would be now. He would not hurt her, could never, ever hurt her. He would pay for her love with loyalty and devotion, would dedicate himself to ensuring that she never found out how it had been with him once, long ago, or that he had chosen her only because she had chosen him.

‘Tom?'

‘What is it, dear?'

‘Look.'

He turned and watched fireworks pouring upwards into the cloud, rockets bursting and a spray of sparks showering down upon the heights of Gilmorehill, showering down and winking out, extinguished prematurely by the rain.

‘Why are they setting them off them tonight, Tom,' Cissie asked, ‘when there's nobody here to see them? It seems such a waste.'

‘It's a demonstration,' Tom said, ‘a sort of rehearsal, I suppose.'

‘For what?'

‘The big show,' Tom answered and, suddenly cold, drew her close and hurried her away towards the exit gate.

PART THREE

1906

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

A Marriage of Sorts

The morning song of Harry Forbes McCulloch began earlier each day. Soon, so his grandfather claimed, one end would meet the other and there would be no sleep at all for any them. It was not that young Harry was a crosspatch. He did not shriek to be fed or wail for attention or whine when things did not go his way. He was, in fact, a cheerful wee chap, possessed of such a sunny disposition that it was impossible to believe that the havoc he caused in the Franklin household was not more the fault of those who cared for him than of the child himself.