by Joan Lingard
Chapter 15
Will was still awake when the phone rang. He jumped up and ran downstairs.
“It’s Dan,” said his mother, covering the mouth of the telephone receiver with her hand. She was listening intently.
“Well, thanks for trying, anyway, Dan,” she said after a few minutes. Her voice was flat. “Come in tomorrow if you’re passing.”
“No luck?” said Will.
She shook her head. “He went on foot right down the length of the Canongate, shining his torch into every close and alleyway. Disturbed one or two men wrapped in blankets and cardboard boxes. He had never seen any of them before. Then he went to the Grassmarket Mission and showed them a photograph of Dad.”
“He could be sleeping in a doorway in Princes Street.”
“We couldn’t expect Dan to trail round the whole of Edinburgh looking in doorways.”
“No, of course not.”
Will went back to bed but found it difficult to sleep. He thought of his father sleeping in a doorway but somehow or other the picture didn’t gel for him. Lucy had convinced herself that that must be what he was doing but Will had a feeling that his father was holed up inside somewhere. But it was only a feeling.
He woke up the next morning with a streaming cold, which his mother put down to hanging around in the street the night before. She said he had better stay at home. Lucy went off grumbling that she didn’t feel too well either but her mother wouldn’t listen.
When they had both left, Will wrapped up warmly and went out himself. He wandered down the High Street. He knew every part of it now in a way that he had never done before. Before he had often passed the mouths of the closes without even glancing in: Old Fishmarket, Fleshmarket, World’s End, Mary King’s, Trunk’s, Anchor, and all the others.
He stopped dead – for, ahead, he saw his father. He could hardly believe it. He blinked and looked again but there was no doubt about it. It was his father. He was about to cross the road at the junction of the High Street with the Bridges. For a moment Will did not move. He stood rooted to the ground, feeling as if he’d received an electric shock. Then he came alive and, shooting forward, raced down the hill. He had almost reached the junction when the lights changed and the ‘red man’ came on. He was going to cross, regardless of that, but a double-decker bus lumbered in front of him, forcing him back. It was a busy junction and traffic moved non-stop: buses, vans, cars. There was no space where he could even risk a crossing. He had to wait until the lights changed again.
By that time, his father was gone.
Will continued on down the street as far as the palace, even though he knew that there would be no chance of catching up with him now. He must be living somewhere in the Canongate. Why else would he be around the area so much? If he were living elsewhere he wouldn’t come near this part of town. The houses that had sat hugger-mugger round the palace in olden days were mostly gone now. Only one row remained in the Abbey Strand but people didn’t live there any more.
Will went into a café to think about it. He ordered a hot chocolate and sat at the window where he could watch the comings and goings in the street.
His father seemed to come out at times of the day when he thought he wouldn’t be seen by them, when they would be at school and their mother at work. Or at night, after they had gone to bed. It upset him to think that his father was so set on avoiding them. He had to keep reminding himself that his dad was unwell and not himself. As Jane kept impressing on them, he was behaving irrationally. Wherever he was or whatever he was doing, it would not solve his problems, and anyone thinking straight would know that.
Will sneezed and a woman at the next table gave him a glance that made him feel as if he had rabies or yellow fever. He did feel rather conspicuous sitting there on his own.
Just then, the door opened and two women came in. One of them was his grandmother. She saw him straight away. She stopped in the doorway.
“Will, what in the name are you doing here?” she demanded. The rest of the customers had turned to look at him and a man shouted out to shut the door, for goodness’ sake, it was perishing cold with it standing open.
Gran closed the door. She came over to Will’s table and still standing, asked, “Why are you not at school?”
“I’ve got a cold.”
“Shouldn’t you be in your bed then?”
“I felt like some air.”
“Air? It’s like the Arctic out there. Does your mum know you’re out?”
“No,” he muttered.
“Thought not!”
He escaped as soon as he could. Just his luck to meet Gran! The whole thing had been a waste of time anyway. He walked slowly back up the street thinking about William and Louisa and the sign of the black dagger. On impulse, he took a detour down to the Cowgate. He thought he knew which archway Louisa had meant.
He stood under the arch looking around him. It was cold and dank down here. No place to be when you had a cold – that’s what his gran would say. Water was dripping from overhead. He raised himself up on tiptoe. He thought he’d seen something. Putting up his hand he touched the etching of the black dagger. He smiled. It might not be of much help to him but it was reassuring in an odd way that he could not fathom. He went home.
He had just got in and was hanging up his wet anorak when the post came. They dreaded the arrival of the mail these days for it just seemed to bring nothing but letters marked REMINDER in red. This time, the postman rang the bell.
“Your mother or father in?” he asked.
Will shook his head.
“I need someone to sign.”
“I could do it.”
“Don’t think that’s on, son. You’re under age. And this is an official letter.”
Will felt his heart plummet.
“When will there be somebody in?”
“I think my mother should be home at lunchtime.” She often came in, for a quick bite, rather than go to a café or carry sandwiches with her. “Just after one.”
“I’ll come back.”
Will could not settle to anything after that.
His mother came bustling in a few minutes after one o’clock.
“The postie brought a letter that needed signing for,” Will told her straight away. “He’s coming back.”
No sooner had he spoken when the postman was at the door again.
“Sign here please, Mrs Cunningham. And print your name below.”
She signed and the postman left. She carried the envelope into the living room. It was addressed to her husband but she intended to open it. Will stood beside her.
She withdrew the sheet of paper and took a deep breath before looking at it. It was a writ, served on Mr Ranald Cunningham by MacAtee, MacPherson and Trimble Financial Services, for the sum of fifty thousand pounds. He was given fourteen days to reply.
“What are we going to do?” asked Will. “He’s not here to reply.”
“I don’t know. I’ll see if Jane is free later.”
After his mother had gone back to work Will looked up the Yellow Pages telephone directory. He found MacAtee, MacPherson and Trimble. They had a big ad, offering loans for any purpose up to two hundred thousand pounds. You could get the money on the same day and you didn’t even have to give any proof of your income. That was how his dad had been able to do it. He’d had no income. The only condition appeared to be that you owned your own house.
“That’s how they can get their money back,” said Jane, when she came round that evening. “If you don’t pay they’ll try to force the sale of the house.”
“What’ll happen if dad doesn’t reply?” asked Will.
“They can go for a decree for payment in the Sheriff Court in his absence.”
They were staring glumly at the writ when Dan arrived. He said he wished he could be of help. He’d lend them something if he could. “But I haven’t got that kind of money.”
None of them did.
“You could take out a mortgage on
the house, Ailsa,” suggested Dan.
“We’ve already done that,” she said. “Ranald used the money to set up the business.”
“You might be able to increase it.”
“Possibly.” She frowned. “I don’t know if I’d be able to meet the payments though. And I’ve no intention of getting into debt myself!”
“That’s the last thing you want to do,” said Jane.
Lucy’s mobile rang. It was Julie. Lucy went out into the lobby to answer it.
“You couldn’t come round for an hour, could you?” Julie lived ten minutes’ walk away. “My mum’s out and I’m in by myself.” Julie and her mum lived on their own, just the two of them.
“I’m coming,” said Lucy. She needed to get out of the house. All this talk of money and debts and their house being sold was doing her head in. Her mother was so distracted by it all that when Lucy said she was going out she didn’t even protest, just said absentmindedly, “Don’t be late.”
Lucy ran before she could be called back.
Chapter 16
William
We have much to record! Events have moved fast this week, especially in the last twenty-four hours.
We are growing more and more interested in Monsieur Goriot. Our paths cross regularly since we are always out and about and so is he. Once one starts deliberately looking for a person one sees him everywhere. We see him escorting Louis de Polastron around the town, simpering in most sickening fashion while he talks to the boy. We see him, too, meeting odd characters on corners and exchanging only a few words with them, or sometimes not even that.
Peg keeps telling us that the French are about to invade Scotland and the town is full of their spies. We never know how much of Peg’s stories to believe. As Louisa says, Peg likes to embroider. But it is true that people are worrying about a French invasion. Some say their ships are standing out to sea off the Scottish coast, others that their troops are advancing over the border from England. The rumours pass from mouth to mouth up the street and down the closes. A regiment called the Royal Edinburgh Volunteers has been formed to defend the city and men are being urged to enlist. They have blue uniforms with red facings and because of that are known as the ‘True Blues’.
Our mother is in a flap. The very thought of the army of that fiend Napoleon Bonaparte advancing into Edinburgh!
“You do not realise what this will mean, mes enfants. They hate the aristocracy. They will send them to the guillotine, just as they did my poor king and queen.”
“They won’t touch us, Maman,” Louisa told her. “We are poor.”
“But I come from a good family in France.”
Louisa and I do not think Napoleon and his men would know that.
“You would not want fine men like the Duke of Hamilton to be taken to the guillotine, would you?”
Of course we would not. We would not want anyone to suffer that and cannot understand the people who go to watch executions down in the Grassmarket or at the Girth Cross. Our father thinks that those who do are the very dregs of society, feeding on the ills and grief of others.
When he came home on his last weekly visit he said he did not think the invasion was quite so imminent or certain. He was also of the opinion that if there were to be one it was unlikely that Napoleon would lead it since he was much too busy waging war in Italy. There is much talk of it in the palace amongst the French emigrés, however. Papa told Maman that, at least, she could relax and forget about Boney the Bogeyman!
“You are such an optimiste, Ranald,” said our mother. “You never take things seriously enough, not until it is too late.”
That is probably true. Our father is always inclined to wait and see what will happen and not worry until it does. We have begun to feel that he has settled too much into being an ‘abbey laird’. He has been given employment as a valet, because, we think, he has been judged to be of good character. Also, he speaks French, which must be an advantage in the palace nowadays. He told the two of us about his new employment, sounding rather pleased with himself. We are keeping it to ourselves. Our mother still thinks he is a right-hand man of the count’s and we do not see any point in telling her otherwise.
About the possibility of war, we – that is Louisa and I, and our friends – are uncertain what to think. We feel some shivers of fear at the thought of an invasion, and some, I confess, of excitement. Charlotte’s father has joined the True Blues and I wish I were old enough to do so myself. Louisa says she is glad I am not. She does not like the idea of me fighting.
With all these rumours flying around, the Town Guardsmen have started to emerge at intervals from their wooden shed opposite the Old Tollbooth and parade up and down the street in their shabby red uniforms and cocked hats to show us that they are alert. They are mostly Highlanders and some of them carry a Lochaber axe instead of a musket. The townspeople lampoon them and call them the ‘town rottens’ or ‘rats’; Bessie says we will all be dead in our beds if we have to rely on them to protect us from Boney. She is sure they wouldn’t know how to fire a musket if they tried. They would probably shoot themselves in the foot. They are able to beat the drum for the ten o’clock closing of the taverns but not much more than that.
According to Peg, French spies have come in amongst the supporters of the count. We have begun to think, judging by his behaviour, that Monsieur Goriot might be one of them. But how are we to prove it? And even if we do, what could we do with the information? Nevertheless, we are keeping up our surveillance of him and we took Charlotte into our confidence so that she can be a lookout too. She has become friendly in the dancing class with Louis de Polastron, which I do not care for very much, although I realise that the connection might be useful. Louis talks to her because she understands a little French. Louisa and I have been giving her lessons.
Charlotte was able to tell us that the Comte d’Artois is a frequent visitor at Madame de Polastron’s house, going there often in the evening to play cards. Also, that Monsieur Goriot is always coming around trying to get into favour with Louis’ mother, who appears to be in poor health much of the time. “Louis doesn’t like him,” said Charlotte. “I daresay his poor mother could do without Monsieur Goriot pestering her.”
“I don’t see how anyone could like Monsieur Goriot,” said Louisa.
“I’ll see what else I can find out,” Charlotte promised. “It is good fun being a spy!” Her eyes sparkled and I confess that I did think she looked uncommonly pretty.
We are also finding it fun. It gives a little edge of excitement to the day.
When we were tracking Monsieur Goriot down into the Grassmarket this morning, he stopped suddenly and waited until the three of us caught up with him.
“Are you following me?” he asked, taking a step closer to us. “You are, aren’t you? I do think you are. And you speak French, so don’t pretend that you don’t understand me! What are you about?”
“We are doing an errand for our friend’s mother,” said Louisa, ignoring his questions. And, indeed, it was true for we were to go to Mr Cowan the candlemaker’s to buy candles for Charlotte’s mother. We were glad it was not Mr Charles for we would not have liked to show our faces there. We have still not paid his bill.
“I see you around all the time,” said Monsieur Goriot. “What is it you want with me?”
“Nothing,” I returned. “We like to walk about the town.”
He thought for a moment, whilst wrinkling his nose and pursing his lips, before saying, “I don’t like being followed by nosy children. Remember that, won’t you? I have friends who don’t like them, either. You understand me, don’t you?”
We did, very well. He was threatening us. I thought of the man with the bulbous nose whom he’d met down in the Cowgate. I was sure he could be vicious if called upon.
“I would be very sorry if you children were to come to any harm,” said Monsieur Goriot in a soft, mocking voice, and then he left us.
“What did he say?” asked Charlotte, after he ha
d gone, for she had not understood everything he’d said.
“He doesn’t like us following him,” I said, not wishing to worry her. “Shall we go and buy your Mama’s candles?”
Mr Cowan served Charlotte willingly for her father, apart from being a member of the True Blues, is a solicitor-at-law and pays his bills on demand. I carried the candles for her. It seemed only right since I am stronger. Papa always insists that I behave like a gentleman, especially to ladies. Sometimes I fear I do not where Louisa is concerned. But then she is my sister; my twin! She smirked when I took the box from Charlotte’s hands and I felt like giving her a kick on the shin.
After we had walked Charlotte home and delivered the candles, Louisa and I continued on down the hill to Holyrood, hoping to see our father. Sometimes, now that he is a valet, he is able to come out around midday after he has completed his morning duties. We had been waiting only a few minutes when he appeared.
“Shall we walk in the park?” he suggested.
We love these times with him. It is as if they are stolen hours.
We entered by Croft-an-Righ and, passing the house of the Polastrons, whom should we see going in but Monsieur Goriot! For once he did not see us. We told Papa we didn’t like the man and that we had seen him meeting suspicious-looking characters in shady places.
“Strange you should say that, but I get the same feeling about him. He always seems to be creeping about the palace eavesdropping.”
I resolved then and there that we ought to do something more positive about finding evidence against Monsieur Goriot. I said nothing, though, to Papa.
“I think you should stay away from him, children,” he said, as if reading my mind. “If he is involved in something dubious he will stop at nothing. Men like him have no scruples.”
The opportunity to act came more quickly than I had thought. Later in the afternoon, we went out for another walk, hoping we might see our father again, but we did not. We saw, instead, our quarry, in the Abbey Strand. He had just come out of a tavern. We held back in a doorway and watched.
