It was a tiny, windowless box room, where the facing wall was lined with shelves above a long working ledge. Prom the shelves, hanging by metal clips, were photographs and negatives, all of Sylvia and Magnus. It was Mr Hammond's darkroom. There was a high stool in a wide space under the ledge and in that space a deep shelf where a stack of photographs lay. Lily pulled the stool forward and ducked under the ledge, crouching, facing the shelf. No one would find her.
Once she had settled, she found that she could hear a murmur of voices through the wall. Lily worked out the plan of the house and realised that only the panelling separated the box room from the place where Mrs Hammond spoke to the housekeeper and the governess.
Her eyes alighted on the photographs and, lifting them carefully so as not to leave any trace, she began to look through them.
There were views of Archerfield taken from White Nancy, and views of the pretty little hill villages of Rainow and Pott Sbrigley; photographs of Hammond Silks with the date and name inked in a spidery copperplate handwriting that had elaborately inscribed flourishes on the capital letters and the tails of the g's and the y's.
Feet were running in the corridor. The study door was flung wide. 'Don't go in there!' Magnus called. 'Father's study is out of bounds. Nobody will go in.' She heard his footsteps - she could not mistake Magnus's tread -crossing the floor to extinguish the lamp.
Only then did she realise she should not be here, and now she was afraid that Magnus would see the band of light under the door. But his footsteps faded. The door closed. She would go once it was quiet. Her heart thumped. She felt like a criminal. She wanted to run from the darkroom but could hear the others, in the corridor and up and down the stairs, running and laughing. She must wait for five minutes.
She put the photographs back and in doing so saw another dusty envelope, hidden in the darkest comer of the shelf. She pulled it out, opened the flap and drew out two photographs about twelve inches square. They were covered in semi-transparent paper such as were placed over illustrations in expensive books. She peeled back the top one, and her mouth opened in astonishment. It was Mam.
Just the head and shoulders. Mam with her hair down, tumbling about her bare neck and arms, holding a piece of chiffon which went about the tops of her arms and dipped in front, out of sight. Mam was beautiful. Her expression had an alluring quality. That was the way to describe the set of her head, the heavy-lidded eyes, the parted lips that were inviting but not smiling. She’d been even more beautiful then than now. Under her picture was the date: 1914.
Lily replaced the transparent paper cover on the photograph and peeled back the one over the second picture. Then her stomach turned over. It was Mam again. Mam, wearing only a skirt and naked from the waist up. Lily closed her eyes. Fright and shock made the blood drain from her face. Her mouth was numb as she forced herself to look again. It was sickening, seeing Mam posed like that, leaning backwards against a table, thrusting forward the heavy breasts that were the focal point of the picture. Mam's head was back, mouth open to show her teeth, eyes half closed; ecstatic. It was bold and it was brazen.
Shame and sick fear swept over Lily. No wonder Mrs Hammond hated Mam. There came back to Lily all the little half-forgotten remarks Mam had made – that Mrs Hammond had scooped up the prizes, swept Mr.Hammond off his feet. Had Mrs Hammond seen the disgusting photographs?
She could not stay another second. There was no sound in the corridor, no servants about so she went, softly, to open the door and creep on tiptoe from the study and into the lighted hallway, all the time telling herself not to think about the photographs; telling herself to put them from her mind for ever. When she reached the drawing room she let her shoes clatter as she ran, forcing a smile. 'You couldn't find me!'
'Where were you?'
'Never mind. Where's my prize?'
There was laughter. Magnus handed over the box of stationery, urging her to write to him when he went to Edinburgh. She made a supreme effort, using the chapel trick, the mesmerising trick to split her mind so that one half told the other to blot out the memory of all she'd seen and heard.
'It should have been the last dance, Lily.' Magnus was saying. 'But the band has gone to the kitchens for supper before the grown-ups' party.'
'Are we to go home, then?'
'No. Ian's going to play the piano.'
Everyone gathered about the grand piano where Ian was seated and being plied with requests to play this and that. Without responding, without another look at anyone, he stared at the far wall, half smiling as he played the popular ballads and the old folk songs they could join in and sing. He played part songs and modern romantic tunes, and as he played Lily felt her worries dispersing, melting away. Music could change her mood. Piano-playing was her way of expressing feelings. It must be the same for Ian.
Ian led the singing in a fine tenor voice. Lily was calming down, refusing to let her thoughts dwell on anything but what she was doing at that moment; joining in with the singing and chorusing. Then Ian stopped. There was a shocked moment's silence before, with a faraway expression on his face he went back to the keys and began to play the cleverest fastest jazz she had ever heard. He was possessed. It was magic. Everyone held their breath. Nobody clapped. Nobody hummed or tapped their feet or made any sound. Ian's right hand was skimming the keys, his touch fast and light, the runs crisp and sharp, and all the time the boogie-woogie beat of the left hand kept the music afloat. It never seemed to touch the ground. The notes were jumping, rippling and cascading all about the room. The very air was throbbing dancing and singing for joy.
It was jazz such as Lily had heard once or twice on a gramophone. She had seen the first talkie last year. Ragtime was nothing like this. She had tried to play 'The Charleston', practising syncopation. Never in her wildest dreams had she imagined that jazz could sound this way -inspired, inventive. Ian's hair had fallen across his face. His brow was glowing with beads of perspiration. A crowd of adults had gathered around the piano as well, and at the open door a group of maids stood, with the butler. Then, just as everyone was being carried away with it all, Ian crashed down his hands in four final emphatic chords, got to his feet and gave a quick bow.
They went crazy, applauding and begging for more but Ian caught Rowena's eye and nodded to her before acknowledging the acclaim. Rowena went from the room quickly and returned with a piano-accordion, which she handed to him. Ian put up his right hand for a moment's silence. 'Scottish dancing,' he announced as he strapped the bulky instrument about his body and slipped his arms through the straps, before wheezing the great instrument in and out.
When he had it set he called, 'Can anyone play the piano?'
'Father!' Magnus shouted.
Mr Hammond, who had been standing at the back, shook his head. 'Afraid not. I don't play by ear. Have to practise everything.'
Magnus said, 'What about you, Lily?'
Ian grinned. 'Can you vamp a bit'! If I give you the melody?'
'I can try,' she answered shyly. She had no idea if she could do it, but she was going to have a go. She went to the piano and sat down, as Ian began a reel and called across. 'Key of G.'
It was bewitching. It was all she had been taught, all she knew and more. The music and the excitement struck the pit of her stomach, but her mind was sharp and receptive. Ian nodded after a few bars, to bring her in - and she was doing it - playing as if they'd played duets for years. Ian, head thrown back, laughed in enjoyment, gave her a few bars to take' the melody, then grabbed it back.
Everyone was clapping. Rowena was in her element, calling out the steps, ordering everyone to form two lines for Strip the Willow. Her voice carried over the heads of the whole room. 'It's danced with total abandon at every children's party and every eight-to-eighty gathering in Scotland!' she called. 'Form two lines. Boys one side. Girls the other.'
She nodded over her shoulder for them to play, then, 'Top couple, swing your partner. One, two three, four. Girl swing the first boy. Right arms
linked ... then your partner. Left arms linked . .. then the next boy. Down the line ...'
All the time Lily's fingers flew up and down the keys and she bit her lip in concentration. Ian's face was wreathed in smiles as Rowena banged her feet and yelled. Everyone on the floor was red in the face with laughter and the effort of not putting a foot wrong.
Rowena called them out into eights for the eightsome reel and sixes for Dashing White Sergeant. Then she let them slow down to a gentler pace for the last three dances, until the very last, when the whole party, adults and all, joined hands for 'Auld Lang Syne'.
Lily knew this one. They sang, 'Should auld acquaintance be forgot, And never brought to mind...' She could span the octaves easily. Both she and Ian did a little improvising on the tune while everyone swung their arms and moved into the centre of the circle. Then Ian's father, in a rich baritone, sang the second verse: 'And here's a hand, My trusty friend, And here's a hand o'mine.. .' and Ian and Lily' played it better than most of them could ever have heard it before.
The party was over. The young ones went to the door, chattering and laughing, as Lily reluctantly put the piano lid down. Ian unfastened the accordion and put it on the piano stool. 'You play very well,' he said. 'It's the hardest thing of all, accompanying a piano-accordion.'
She beamed with pleasure. 'Thank you.'
'Next time I come to Archerfield we must have an hour together,' he said. 'Making music.'
Magnus was holding out her cape and Ian, laughing, said, 'Magnus! I refuse to play here again without my wee accompanist.'
Then everyone was going to the big front door, saying goodbye, climbing into motor cars, waving and disappearing down the drive. Lily walked back to the Lodge, holding Grandpa's hand, under a half-melon moon that hung low in the sky ahead of them, as happy as if she'd been crowned Queen. She had no cares, no worries. It was the best day of her life. She could put from her mind the awful things she had learned about Mam. Tonight her head was ringing with happiness and music· and song - and the knowledge that she had made a friend of the boy she loved, Ian Mackenzie.
Two years had passed since Magnus left home for Edinburgh. He was fitter, healthier, stronger here from all the exercise he took, for exercise was a requirement in the Mackenzie family. Magnus had learned to swim, and now his shoulders were broader with his developed biceps and deltoid muscles. He had hopes of swimming for his house. He was very fast over two lengths.
Every day he walked, first from school to the tram at the crossroads, where churches stood on the four comers, or else to the station at Craiglockhart. Then again from the tram stop on Princes Street to Uncle Mack's house in Charlotte Square.
Today his legs ached from battling against the icy east wind. The heavy oak front door, painted lacquer black, was closed. He hesitated with his hand on the brass lion's head, decided against lifting it and went out of the iron-railed area round to the side door and in at the surgery entrance. Evening surgery was for the panel patients, and always busy. He could hear the hum of voices in the waiting room, half an hour before surgery.
He reached the dispensary door as the elderly Miss Pettigrew opened it and in that confidential whisper said, 'Your results were all right, Magnus. Dr Mackenzie asked me to tell you.'
He smiled in relief and loitered there for a moment, glad to stop before he entered the tiled hall and climbed the stairs to the living rooms. The whole ground floor was taken up with the surgery, consulting room, waiting room and dispensary. Uncle Mack treated patients from the wealthy New Town area of the city as well as the panel patients from the Old Town on the other side of Princes Street. He said to Miss Pettigrew, who tested his urine for blood once a week, 'No traces?'
'None,' she answered. Then, 'Come inside. I will make up your powders. You should have three left...?'
'I have.' Magnus followed her into the dispensary and sat down. He loved it in here: the banks of wooden drawers with Latin abbreviations in gold and black lettering, the tall, clear bottles in elegant shapes, the deep-blue ones whose contents with poisonous, the long white bench, the drachm weights and tiny scales, and the smell, the carbolic cleanness of it all. He lived with the hope, as his father did, that one day, by some alchemic magic, the formula that would put an end to his haemophilia would appear. It was good to know that the treatment was working. He said, 'Is Ian home?'
'He's upstairs. He came in half an hour ago,' she replied.
He sat and watched, enjoying seeing Miss Pettigrew at the pill-rolling, mixture-bottling, powder-weighing, paper-folding and ointment-boxing that filled six hours of her every day. When he had his powders in his hand he climbed the stairs to the drawing room overlooking the square.
Ian said, 'You're late. You look whacked! Been swimming?'
'I walked to Holy Comer and caught the tram. Strengthen my legs.' Magnus laughed. 'All I've developed is a strong list to port from battling against the wind.'
Ian said, 'It'll serve you well if you're coming down to North Berwick with me next Saturday.'
'Are you taking the boat out?' Magnus enjoyed the odd Saturday morning at North Berwick, working on Ian's boat, varnishing and oiling and mending sails, but he wouldn’t be here next weekend.
Ian said, 'Are you coming?'
'I can't.' Then he added hastily, 'I've been given leave and I have to see the dentist. What a fuss that is!' It was a nuisance, having every tooth examined for the tiniest cavity. But he could not risk extractions. And going home meant he could see Lily. He said cheerfully, 'No match on Saturday?' Ian was eighteen, captain of rugby and deputy head boy.
'We're not playing.' Ian's smile vanished. The good-natured bantering tone he used with Magnus and Rowena was a reflection of his enormous sense of humour. Under it lay a forceful nature. 'Where does Chancellor go at night? What's he up to?'
Magnus shook his head. 'What's the matter?'
'He's missed rugby practice for the last three weeks. We've had to cancel Saturday's match.' Ian organised but did not join the second fifteen at the twice-weekly training sessions which were run by a coach and referee. With a face like thunder he said, 'Chancellor's been forging my signature. Getting out of the boarding house two nights a week, supposedly for rugby practice. God knows where he goes.'
Magnus whistled through his teeth. The week after next, Ray's father was going to be inaugurated as Mayor of Macclesfield. They were going to ask leave from the school to bring Ray home for the ceremony. 'What's going to happen? Will he be expelled?'
'Severely disciplined,' Ian said. 'Unless he has a plausible excuse. It had better be good.’
Magnus said, 'What does "severely disciplined" entail?'
'He will be given a week, maybe two,' Ian said, 'to mend his ways, or he will be out of the boarding house. His parents will have to find somewhere else for him. As it is, I'm chucking him off the team. I'm going to his boarding house tonight to tell him.’
‘I'm going upstairs,' Magnus said. His attic study was on the top floor. 'I have a lot of work to do tonight.’
'Right. See you at supper. Unless Dad is called out we'll have an easy night,' Ian said.
'For once!'
Magnus heard Ian's shout of laughter following him up the stairs. Magnus's idea of an easy night was one in which he sat by the fire in his attic study, reading or working, watching the sun set over the slate roofs, spires, leafy green places and Adam crescents of the city.
To his cousins an easy night was one where they gathered in the drawing room after supper, as they would this evening. Uncle Mack would talk to the three of them - Magnus was included with Ian and Rowena - about the need to work hard, to apply themselves. They were to see their hobbies - painting for Rowena, music and sailing for Ian, reading for Magnus for what they were - enjoyment.
The main purpose of their young lives was to prepare to be useful members of society, to direct themselves to learning, making careers, though moneymaking was not to be their aim.
It will disappoint! Don't do anything for mon
ey alone!' Uncle Mack said. 'There is reward in doing something well.' These were Uncle Mack's maxims. Another was 'Effort in equals results out. A simple equation.' It was a purposeful household.
Everybody worked hard. They had no time for slackers. Uncle Mack was a strict man of the old school. Like Father, Uncle Mack was a good man. Magnus wanted to be like them; a good man who did good things.
In his attic room Magnus placed his school satchel on the chair. A fire had been lit and his study was warm and inviting. He loved having this room, this attic floor of the house, to himself. It had been like shedding a skin, like emerging from a chrysalis, having a life for himself, here in Edinburgh. He missed nothing from Macclesfield, missed no one but Lily. He went to the window and gazed at the distant view of the wide blue Firth of Forth and the hills of the Kingdom of Fire. Then be crossed the room to the opposite window and his eyes dropped to Ian's figure, striding across the square, on his way to tick off Ray Chancellor.
*…*…*
Ian walked fast. There were queues for the trams at teatime and a twenty-minute walk would give him exercise and a chance to think about what he'd say to Chancellor. He could not stand the fellow. What on earth would make anyone behave as Chancellor had? The fellow was seventeen. He had done well in his School Certificate so it couldn’t be worry about the Highers that were coming up next.
He crossed Princes Street and quickened his pace on the down- slope of Lothian Road. It would take him a quarter of an hour to reach Holy Corner, but he was glad of it, for his ligaments needed stretching. He had to spend hours in his room, working for the entrance exam for medical school.
He was never confident that he had it in him. Dad said he had, and so did his chemistry master, but Ian could think of a dozen areas he might be questioned upon and flounder. There was the big area of chemical reactions, molecular chemistry, aldehydes and metallurgy, a field of study of which he had scant knowledge. He could be questioned on anything. The solution was to work. If he had the facility to soak up knowledge, which Chancellor evidently had, he would make better use of his talents. What was the fellow playing at? He looked at his wristwatch. Twenty-five minutes. Not bad.
Wise Child Page 14
