The Piper's Tune (8 page)

‘What? Yes. Sorry.'

He swung his arm away and casually continued the conversation.

Lindsay wondered where Miss Runciman had got to with the coffee. She considered the possibility that the housekeeper was deliberately allowing her time alone with her handsome Irish cousin. She was tempted to leap to her feet, stalk out into the hall and declare her lack of enthusiasm for spending any time alone with Owen Forbes McCulloch. But the truth was that she didn't lack enthusiasm, didn't lack interest in this odd young man who could be so naive one minute, so sly and worldly the next.

‘Have you got money?' Forbes said. ‘Income of your own, I mean?'

‘Papa gives me a small allowance.'

‘How much?'

‘For heaven's sake, Forbes!'

The rebuff was obviously expected and he rattled on without a blush. ‘Four years is a long time to wait.'

‘Doesn't your father give you an allowance?'

‘Not him. Mean bastard!'

‘Oh, come along. I don't believe he doesn't give you something.'

‘If it wasn't for Mam I don't know what I'd do.'

‘Don't you receive a wage from Beardmore's?'

‘I'm an
apprentice,
a bloody apprentice, no better than a bloody
slave.
'

A discreet knock upon the drawing-room door: feeling decidedly foolish, Lindsay said, ‘Enter.' Miss Runciman brought in a tray weighted with Georgian silver and the monogrammed English coffee service. She placed the tray on the sofa table and dropped a curtsey.

‘Shall I serve, Miss Lindsay, or will the young gentleman help himself?'

‘The young gentleman will help himself.'

‘Will that be all, Miss Lindsay?'

‘Yes, Miss Runciman. That will be all.'

The housekeeper's matt brown eyes were fiercely appraising. She sized up the Irish cousin and lingered long enough to receive a beaming smile and a soft, almost feminine flutter of Forbes's dark lashes. ‘Thank you,' he said, his irritation replaced by something that Lindsay could only define as charm. It was a selfish, narcissistic performance, but she, like Miss Runciman, so wanted to believe that it was sincere that she, like Miss Runciman, could do nothing but respond to it. When the housekeeper finally left the room, Lindsay got to her feet and fussed with cups and coffee pot while her cousin hoisted himself from the sofa, wandered to the window and stared out over Brunswick Park.

‘It's certainly a grand place to live,' he said.

Lindsay said, ‘Nicer than Dublin? Surely not.'

‘Well, Dublin's my home town and will always be close to my heart.' He returned to the sofa and accepted a coffee cup and saucer. ‘But it's here on the Clyde that I'll make my mark.'

He stood close to Lindsay, balancing the miniature cup and saucer on his palm. His presence made her feel curiously mature, as if she had already inherited her father's house or become a wife in her own right.

‘Is it a big house you have here?' Forbes asked.

‘Big enough for two of us.'

‘It'll not be as roomy as Pappy's place?'

‘No,' said Lindsay. ‘Few houses in Glasgow are.'

‘I'd be as well digging in there then.'

‘Pardon?'

‘I thought I might be better off here.'

‘You…'

‘Nearer to you,' he said. ‘Wouldn't you like that?'

Lindsay had been flirted with before, usually by men four or five years older than she was. In fact, she had almost been proposed to just before Christmas when Gordon Swann, Ethan Swann's youngest, had got carried away by the lights and the music at the Federated Ironmasters' annual ball in Finnieston Hall and had been on the point of popping the question. Lindsay had done nothing to encourage him, though she had let him kiss her out in the cold stone corridor under the bas-relief memorial to those who had died in the
Minerva
tragedy. That brief, breathless one-Christmas-night fling with Gordon Swann had not been serious, however. Somehow this was – desperately serious, even if Forbes lacked gravity and was far too young for her. Hot, calculating eyes and brash, impolitic hints of adult experience did not make him a man.

‘I think you had better go,' Lindsay told him.

‘I've offended you, haven't I?'

‘You have,' said Lindsay.

‘You're easily offended then.'

‘Perhaps Dublin girls have thicker skins than I do.'

‘They know a compliment when they hear one.' He drank coffee, put the cup back on the saucer and handed both to Lindsay. ‘Anyway, I'm here to stay, Linnet, and Harper's Hill isn't so very far away.'

‘Why do you call me “Linnet”?'

‘That's what my mam calls you.'

‘My name is Lindsay, plain Lindsay.'

‘I'll remember that next time,' Forbes said. ‘Do you really want me to go? I thought we were rubbing along pretty well.'

‘No, I want you to go.'

‘Walk me to the door then.'

‘Why should I?'

‘Because I'm your cousin and you are a lady.'

‘Where's your overcoat?'

‘Got none.'

‘Your hat?'

‘Got none. Lindsay, walk me to the door.'

Without knowing quite why she did so, she obeyed him.

Standing on the top step she watched him stroll off along the crescent, disappointed that he did not look back. In years to come, though, during and after her marriage, that was how she would remember Forbes, walking off into the gathering dusk – and deliberately not looking back.

CHAPTER FOUR

Sunday in the Park

Brunswick Park Choral Society had none of the pretensions of the big city choral unions. If there was such a thing as a written constitution no one knew where it was to be found, which is not to say that the society's members did not take singing seriously. On the contrary: they were just as dedicated to musical excellence as any of the great orchestral choirs, and what they lacked in timbre they more than made up for in gusto.

Mr Perrino, the choir's conductor, claimed his musical inheritance from an Italian knife-grinder who had docked at Greenock in the mistaken impression that he had reached the golden shores of the Hudson and who, being short on wit as well as cash, had decided to settle in Glasgow instead of re-embarking for New York. What had trickled down through three generations was an exploitable Italian surname, a perfect ear for pitch and a good set of vocal chords, attributes that had earned ‘Perry' Perrino a decent living throughout the years and which –
Deo gratias
– he had passed on to his daughters, one of whom, Matilda, was presently the Brunswick's accompanist.

The choir met for practice throughout the winter months in the assembly hall of St Silas's School. It gave regular public performances in aid of the Tramways Servants' Sick & Benefit Society and other local charities in the Boilermakers' Institute in Partick, which was the venue for the final concert of the season.

Saturday was warm and sunny and drifted into one of those lovely clear evenings that now and then bless Clydeside. Because of the fine weather, though, the Boilermakers' was less than half full when, at half past seven o'clock, Mr Perrino shepherded the choir on to the platform to desultory applause. Matilda Perrino, slender and elegant in a black evening gown, took her place at the piano, Mr Perry Perrino his place at the podium. He had a trim grey beard and wavy hair and wore a loose pale grey jacket that, in contrast to the formal dress of the singers, lent him a faintly Bohemian air.

‘Perry's developing a tummy,' Mercy Franklin murmured. ‘That ratty old grey jacket won't hide it much longer.'

‘How right you are,' Lindsay agreed. ‘Soon he'll have to wear a bell tent.'

Mercy chuckled but when her little sister, Pansy, demanded what the joke was tapped the younger girl with her programme. ‘Don't be nosy. Sit up. Pay attention. Look, there's Dada.'

‘Where?'

‘With the baritones, back row, fourth from the left.'

‘I can't see him.'

‘Behind the tall chap. See the tall chap?'

‘Mr Calder,' Lindsay said.

‘Oh, is that his name?' Cissie joined in the conversation for the first time. ‘How do you know him? Does he come to the house?'

‘No,' Lindsay said. ‘I've met him at management meetings.'

‘
You
go to those?' said Mercy.

‘Of course,' Lindsay said. ‘Didn't Martin tell you?'

‘What on earth for?'

‘To see for myself what goes on at the shipyard.'

‘Rubbish!'

‘All right,' Lindsay said. ‘To annoy Papa. Is that better?'

‘Much better,' said Mercy, and chuckled again.

Having brought the choir under control, Mr Perrino turned to the audience and delivered a brief speech of welcome, all flashing teeth and smiles.

‘Do you know,' said Mercy from the side of her mouth, ‘I do believe the poor soul is trying to appear cuddly.'

‘Well, he's not succeeding,' said Pansy.

Aunt Lilias's daughters had been press-ganged into turning out for the last concert of the season and were none too pleased about it. The boys, Forbes included, had gone instead to the Theatre Royal to see the Wilson Barrett Company's production of
Hamlet
which, to the Franklin girls, was definitely the lesser of two evils. Even Pappy, seated next to Lilias, showed little enthusiasm when Mr Perrino with a little
tap-tap
of his baton swept the choir into Robert Lester's setting of ‘Our Native Hills'.

Fifty minutes later the first half of the programme had run its course and the choir filed from the platform into the ‘long room' where refreshments were served. Choir and audience mingled at the trestle tables. Uncle Donald waved but did not approach. Papa, engaged in carrying glasses of fruit squash to a brace of sopranos, did not wave at all. It was left to Mr Calder to approach the Franklin girls and enquire if they were enjoying themselves.

Lindsay replied politely that she was, and introduced Mr Calder to Cissie, Mercy and Pansy, who were not particularly interested in or impressed by the man. Tom returned to the safety of the choir and, seizing her chance, Cissie drew Lindsay off to one side.

‘What do you make of Forbes McCulloch?' she said.

Lindsay was instantly on her guard. ‘Why do you ask?'

‘Tell me what you think of him.'

‘Are you stuck on him?'

‘No, but I think he's stuck on me.'

‘Really?' Lindsay said. ‘What gives you that impression?'

‘The way he behaves.'

‘Affectionately?'

‘He's – he's – forward. Very forward.'

‘In what way?' said Lindsay, frowning.

Cissie glanced round; her sisters were chatting to school friends and Aunt Lilias and Pappy had been trapped by Mrs Goldsmith who was angling to be invited into what she regarded as the Franklins' inner circle.

‘If you don't want to tell me…' Lindsay said.

‘I don't know how to put it.'

‘It can't be that bad.'

‘He shows himself to me.'

‘What do you mean by “shows himself”?'

Freckles glowed across the bridge of Cissie's nose. Her blue eyes, normally bright and mischievous, were cloudy with concern. ‘He comes home every evening like a navvy,' she said. ‘He rides across town from Parkhead on the omnibus, you see. You can smell horse on him, and other smells too, soot or grease or something. He sidles in by the kitchen entrance and goes straight up to his room by the rear stairs still wearing his filthy boots.'

‘How do you know?'

‘I watch him.'

‘
You
watch
him?
'

‘I'm not spying on him, if that's what you're implying,' Cissie said, hastily. ‘Fact of the matter is, it's impossible to avoid him. He's there, constantly there. Showing himself to me.'

‘Precisely how does he show himself?' Lindsay asked.

‘He comes out of the bathroom wearing nothing but a towel.'

‘Perhaps that's what they do in Dublin.'

‘No, he loiters in the bathroom until he hears me in the corridor before he comes out with just a towel, a tiny little hand towel about his…'

‘Loins,' Lindsay suggested.

‘Yes, loins.'

‘Why don't you ignore him?'

‘I can't.'

‘Are you sure you want to?'

‘Lindsay Franklin! How dare—'

‘I'm sorry. Go on, please.'

‘He swaggers towards me, looking at me, looking at me and
smiling.
I mean, our boys never parade about in that state. They'd be far too embarrassed. Besides, they have their dressing-gowns, and Mama insists—'

‘Have you told your mama?'

‘I haven't told anyone yet.'

Lindsay laid a sympathetic hand on her cousin's sleeve. ‘We can't talk about this here. We'll have to meet in private.'

‘When?'

‘Tomorrow afternoon, after church. We'll meet at the iron bridge in Kelvingrove a half-hour after lunch,' Lindsay said.

‘Good idea.' Cissie sniffed. ‘You do believe me, Lindsay, don't you?'

‘Of course I do, silly,' Lindsay said.

*   *   *

Eleanor Runciman believed that the world was full of women plotting to lure Mr Arthur to the altar. She lived in dread that one night he would not return home. For this reason she made a point of finding out which swan-throated soprano or full-bosomed contralto was running first in the field of Mr Arthur's affections, but as season succeeded season and the eager little divas became younger and more attractive Eleanor's anxiety increased.

She had no reason to suppose that the man she loved was anything other than honourable. Men were such weak creatures and so easily led, though, that she was afraid that Mr Arthur might eventually succumb to one of the grasping little harpies, a younger, slimmer, still fertile version of the woman that she had been when she'd stepped into his house sixteen years ago.