She knew him well enough to say, ‘Like a weed, Mr Harrington?’
‘A flower then, is that better?’
‘Much better,’ Lindsay said. ‘I didn’t notice you in the cathedral for the Easter Cantata. Didn’t you attend?’
‘Throat.’ Mr Harrington tapped his collar stud. ‘Quinsy throat.’
He was not quite so old as her grandfather. He was very small with a hunch to his shoulders that suggested not so much deformity as defensiveness. His skin was white and moist, always moist, which was why Martin had coined the nickname ‘the whelk’ for him. By contrast Martin was tall, broad-shouldered and open-featured. He continued to hold Lindsay’s hand as if he felt she might be intimidated by men whom she had known most of her life.
He winked. ‘Don’t be frightened.’
‘Why should I be frightened?’
‘I’ll take you down to the yard afterwards, show you the ropes. We’ve a full order book at the moment and an interesting collection of—’
‘Martin,’ her grandfather said, ‘don’t pester the girl.’
‘I’m not pestering her. I just thought that if she’s going to be a partner she should know something about what goes on here.’
At that juncture Donald ushered Aunt Kay into the room. She, it appeared, had been appointed to act for her son. After a few almost perfunctory introductions, Owen Franklin said, ‘I believe all the relative parties are present now, Harrington, so I reckon we might as well push on.’
* * *
The lines of demarcation that governed who did what among shipwrights did not apply to managers. On to their shoulders fell responsibility not only for their own departments but for many other departments as well. Each of the umpteen processes that led from first rough sketches to a vessel’s trials was fraught with the possibility of error and every plate, rivet and pipe had to be checked and rechecked at every stage.
Tom Calder coped with this pressure by keeping himself to himself. Managers like George Crush or Peter Holt never knew what Calder was thinking, what moved him to vote for this procedure against that or to dig in his heels over a problem whose solution seemed obvious to everyone else. The fact that Calder was right more often than not did not endear him to his colleagues. He was regarded as a stubborn devil who seemed not so much transparent as completely opaque, a quality that bouncy, bumptious George Crush and pragmatic Peter Holt found incomprehensible.
Even the men who had accompanied Tom Calder to the Niger did not know what made him tick. He had thrived in the stifling heat of the mangrove swamps and, unlike the rest of the crew, had remained abundantly healthy throughout their term on the fever-ridden river. He had grown brown and lean and lively while the rest of Franklin’s team had been washed out by sickness. He had even volunteered to accompany the Mungo Park, largest of the stern-wheelers that had been assembled amid the sandflies and mosquitoes at Burutu, to test her engines against the fierce currents below Jebba, four hundred miles upstream. What impression the Niger had made upon Tom Calder remained a mystery. He had delivered his reports within days of returning to Aydon Road and had been back in the drawing office in less than a week, as if the African trip had never taken place at all.
On Monday morning George Crush ran Calder to earth in the drawing office. Wasting no time on pleasantries, he said, ‘What’s this I hear about a lassie taking over the management?’
‘I’ve no idea what you’re blathering about, George.’
‘Come off it, man. The place is stiff with rumours.’
On Tom’s board was a complete ‘as fitted’ drawing of Torpedo-Boat No. 56, an Admiralty-commissioned vessel 125 feet in length, with a 12-foot beam and a triple expansion engine that, on paper at least, would give a top speed of 26.4 knots. Tom admired the craft’s sleek, purposeful lines and hoped that he would be invited to accompany her on her trials.
‘Are you not going to tell me?’ Crush insisted.
‘Nothing to tell.’
‘It’s the old man’s granddaughter, Mr Arthur’s lass. Now you can’t pretend you don’t know her, since she’s another music fiend. Is she the blonde who turns up at launches?’
‘I expect so,’ Tom said.
George knew perfectly well who Anna Lindsay Franklin was. He had met her several times and had gossiped about her in the manager’s office, predicting that once she grew up she would make a perfect mate for young Martin, since neither of them seemed over-endowed with brains.
‘They’re up in the boardroom right now,’ George went on, ‘with Mr Harrington. You know what that means.’
‘What does it mean?’
‘It means the rumours are true. The old man’s retiring and we’re going to have a lassie telling us what to do.’
‘If Mr Owen hands the reins to anyone it’ll be Donald and Arthur.’
‘So you have heard something?’
On Monday morning the draughtsmen were slow getting into their stride. The long room was filled with the scrape of stools, the stealthy rustle of paper being unfurled and the clump of the polished flat-irons that kept the ends of the rolls from scuttling shut. Visions of sleek, high-powered torpedo-boats cleaving the waters of the Gareloch evaporated. Tom couldn’t be bothered with George’s questions. They were based on the fact that Arthur Franklin and he were both members of the Brunswick Park Choral Society, and Crush’s assumption that singing in a choir entitled him to share the Franklins’ family secrets which, of course, was far from the truth.
‘Come on, Tommy,’ George Crush wheedled, ‘what have you heard? Is Yarrow finally moving north and buying us out?’
‘I don’t know where you pick up these daft notions,’ Tom said.
‘Well, there’s no smoke without fire. It seems to me – Peter agrees – that we’re in for either a sell-out or a shift in management.’
Tom could hardly believe that men so skilled in the art of building ships would fall prey to every panicky rumour that floated up from the boiler shop. Every so often the tale would go about that Alfred Yarrow or Thornycroft of Chiswick was bidding for property on the Clyde. Heads would hang in the managers’ office and the apprentices would go around looking as if they expected the axe to fall at any moment; then the threat would disappear and another unfounded rumour would replace it.
‘George, George,’ Tom said. ‘You can’t seriously believe that old man Franklin would put a female in charge of us?’
‘Aye, well, you never know what rich folk will do when it suits them.’
‘A girl? In charge of shipbuilding?’
‘I suppose you’re right,’ Crush admitted reluctantly. ‘What’s she doing here, though? I mean, you can’t deny she’s been brought here for a reason.’
Tom glanced at the moon-faced clock above the drawing-office door.
‘Tell you what, George.’
‘What?’
‘Why don’t we walk over to the boardroom and find out?’
* * *
Lindsay had not expected fanfares to announce her entry into the partnership. She had also not anticipated that the proceedings would be so perfunctory and, to say the least of it, so very, very dry. Mr Harrington droned on about the new agreement for a good fifteen minutes before handing out typed copies of the document. Lindsay applied herself to reading but her attention soon slid away. Instead she found herself eyeing Aunt Kay who was scanning the agreement as if she understood every word of it. Perhaps, Lindsay thought, her Irish auntie was more of a businessman than anyone gave her credit for. After all, her husband operated a profitable brewery in Dublin and it was safe to assume that neither Kay nor her son had been entirely shut out.
‘Mistress McCulloch, are there any points you’d like clarified?’
‘No, it’s all as clear as day, thank you.’
‘Good.’ Mr Harrington seemed about to put the same question to Lindsay, then thought better of it. ‘Shall we move on?’
‘Please do,’ said Pappy.
Lindsay listened to Mr Harrington with on
ly half an ear. She observed her grandfather who, most uncharacteristically, lolled in the tall chair at the top of the table as if he could no longer be bothered with the proceedings that he had inaugurated.
‘Have you any questions?’ Mr Harrington said.
‘When will the articles of partnership come into force?’ Martin asked.
‘On the first day of May.’
‘When will you announce the board changes, Pappy?’
The old man stirred. ‘I’ll inform the managers this morning and announce it to the men tomorrow. Rumours have already been flying so it’s probably best to put a stop to them before the ship-owners begin inventing silly stories about us going to the wall. I want no fuss, you understand. I want the handover to be as smooth as possible. As far as the workforce is concerned nothing will change. Why should it?’
‘Because you won’t be here to look out for them,’ Martin said.
‘Daft beggar!’ Pappy said, though he was pleased, Lindsay saw, by her cousin’s remark.
Five minutes later the managers filed into the boardroom. Lindsay made no move to leave. Her father did not press her to do so. Aunt Kay also remained seated. Only Mr Harrington, who apparently had urgent matters to attend to elsewhere, took his leave and departed. Lindsay looked around the table. She recognised Mr Holt, Mr Crush, and Mr Tom Calder, the tall stony-faced draughtsman who sang with her father in the Brunswick choir. She smiled at him. Rather to her surprise, he smiled back.
Owen Franklin got to his feet. He plucked at his lip with finger and thumb then spread his coat tails and put his hands behind him to hide the trembling. ‘Gentleman,’ he said, ‘before we buckle down to the business of the day, I’ve an important announcement to make.’
Behind her, Lindsay heard someone hiss, ‘Didn’t I tell you, Tommy?’
And Mr Calder answer, sotto voce, ‘So you did, George. So you did.’
* * *
‘Were they surprised?’ Miss Runciman asked.
‘I think they had an inkling that something was in the wind.’
‘Were they shocked?’
‘No,’ Lindsay said. ‘They took it rather calmly, in fact. I expect they realise that things will go on much as usual with Papa and Donald in charge.’
‘Your father…’ Miss Runciman began, then stopped herself.
Chin held over her soup plate, Nanny Cheadle completed the sentence: ‘… is a wonderful man.’
‘That’s not what I was going to say,’ Miss Runciman snapped. ‘I do wish you would stop putting words in my mouth, Nanny.’
‘Somebody’s got to,’ Nanny Cheadle said. ‘Did they cheer?’
Lindsay was mildly confused. ‘Pardon?’
‘The men, did they cheer?’
‘Hardly. They won’t be given the news until tomorrow.’
‘They’ll cheer,’ Nanny Cheadle predicted. ‘They always cheer. If you were to stand up and announce that the seas had dried up, they’d still cheer. That’s men for you. Cheer first, complain later.’
‘I don’t think they’ll complain,’ said Miss Runciman. ‘With Arthur – with Lindsay’s papa in charge they’ll have no cause for complaint, I’m sure.’
‘I’m sure,’ said Nanny Cheadle. ‘Where is his lordship anyway?’
‘Donald and he have taken Aunt Kay to supper at the Barbary,’ Lindsay answered.
‘There’s a sacrifice for you,’ Nanny said.
‘Now why do you say that?’ Miss Runciman enquired. ‘I think it’s very nice, the three of them celebrating together.’
‘Squabbling together more like,’ said Nanny.
It was after seven o’clock. The dining-room windows caught the evening sunlight but the little park was already in shadow. Lindsay had returned home from the informal luncheon that had followed the managers’ meeting at half past two o’clock and had mooched about the house for the rest of the afternoon. She was tempted to trot over to Harper’s Hill to report to Cissie or take tea with Aunt Lilias but somehow she did not feel entirely welcome in her grandfather’s house these days. The appearance of the Irish cousin had upset the equilibrium. Papa had been right about one thing, though: the managers’ meeting had been boring. She had understood little of the jargon and the unfurling of plans and diagrams and the rapidity with which the men could make complicated arithmetical calculations had both impressed and dismayed her.
Nanny Cheadle finished her soup, licked her finger, dabbed a pea from the plate, put it between her teeth and nibbled like a squirrel.
Maddy cleared away the plates and brought in a dish of new potatoes, another of buttered cabbage and, finally, a tray of hot mutton chops.
Miss Runciman thanked the maid, and served.
The housekeeper looked different tonight. Her dowdy dress had been exchanged for a blue muslin blouse and she had arranged her thick brown hair in a style that softened her strong, almost masculine features. Lindsay watched Nanny stab a mutton chop and hack away the rim of golden-brown fat. Nanny Cheadle had arrived in Brunswick Crescent on the day that Aunt Kay had left, Miss Runciman a couple of years later. Neither had known Kay and probably had no knowledge of the quarrel that had left such a residue of bitterness so that even now, eighteen years on, it was all Papa could do to be civil to his sister.
‘What makes you think they’ll be squabbling, Nanny?’ Lindsay asked.
The old woman looked up. For a moment she seemed more cunning than vague. ‘Never you mind, Linnet, never you mind. He’ll arrive home in a temper, though, mark my words.’
‘You never did meet my aunt, did you?’
‘Once, just that once, out there in the hall,’ Nanny said. ‘Had you in her arms, she did, all wrapped up in your shawl. Very pretty you were too.’
‘My aunt – Kay, I mean – she told me I was ugly.’
‘Nah, nah, dearest. She was the ugly one, that much about her I do remember,’ Nanny went on. ‘Luggage in the hall, hat on her head, white as a piece of chalk and shaking like a fig tree.’
‘Where was my father?’ Lindsay said.
‘At the foot of the stairs. Whiter than she was, white as a ghost.’
‘Why have you never told me before?’ Lindsay asked.
‘Never thought to mention it,’ Nanny said. ‘Anyhow, you never asked.’
‘Did they say anything to each other?’
Nanny Cheadle closed her eyes and murmured to herself, as if to summon up the spirits of the dead. ‘Nah,’ she said at length ‘not a word crossed between them that I can recall. She just gave me the baby, stuck out her arms and handed you over as soon as I stepped in through the front door. Then she walked past me, down the steps to the carriage. The carriage-man come up and lifted her luggage. And that was her gone for good.’
‘Hasn’t your father told you about this?’ Miss Runciman asked.
‘He won’t speak of it.’
‘Perhaps it’s too painful for him.’
‘What a good baby you were,’ Nanny Cheadle put in. ‘Never cross, never ugly.’ She lifted her fork. ‘Is there no mint sauce?’
‘It’s a chop, Nanny. There’s gravy if you wish it. See, here’s gravy.’
‘Gravy,’ the old woman said. ‘I don’t want gravy. I want sauce.’
At that moment the doorbell rang in the hall.
Miss Runciman rose to answer it.
She returned a minute or so later, looking puzzled and slightly annoyed.
‘It’s a young man,’ she said. ‘He claims that he’s your Irish cousin.’
‘Forbes,’ said Lindsay, making to rise. ‘Where…’
‘I put him in the drawing-room,’ Miss Runciman replied.
‘I’ll go to—’
‘No, you will not,’ said Miss Runciman sternly. ‘You will finish your dinner before you do anything. Unannounced guests do not have priority over a well-cooked meal.’
‘But what does he want?’
‘To see you, apparently’ Miss Runciman said.
‘He – he asked for me?’ said L
indsay. ‘He called to see me?’
Nurse and housekeeper exchanged a knowing glance.
Miss Runciman sat down at the table with a smooth, rather smug tucking in of skirts. She lifted her knife, and almost smiled. ‘Yes, my dear, he has called to see you,’ she said, then added, ‘uninvited – which is reason enough for letting him cool his heels for a quarter of an hour or so.’
* * *
‘Well,’ Lindsay said, ‘this is an unexpected pleasure. I apologise for keeping you waiting but we usually dine at seven and never receive before eight. You wouldn’t know that, of course.’
She was flustered. Given more time she would have galloped upstairs and changed out of the pale brown outfit into something more becoming. She had kept Forbes waiting as long as she dared, however. Thank heaven Maddy had had the sense to light the fire and turn up the gas.
Forbes did not seem at all put out by being made to wait. Lindsay got the impression that he had been dozing and that if she’d dallied for another two or three minutes she might have found him asleep on the long, leather sofa. He wore a tweed jacket over unmatched trousers, a knitted vest. In the collar of his shirt was a scarf, not quite the coarse muffler that ordinary workmen wore but getting on that way. With his jet black hair and long lashes, though, Forbes could be forgiven any lapse in social etiquette. He was, Lindsay had to remind herself, not much more than a boy.
‘I take it that you’ve had something to eat?’ she said.
‘Yes, Aunt Lilias saw to it.’
‘Good. Please, please make yourself comfortable.’
She watched him settle, arm along the back of the sofa, his legs crossed. He looked directly at her, nowhere else. In the iron grate kindling crackled and fresh flames licked through a pyramid of coals.
Lindsay had never entertained a young man on her own before, not counting her cousins, of course, but Martin, Johnny and Ross knew how to make themselves at home without her attentions. It was different with her Irish cousin, though. He was far too confident for someone of seventeen. She was halfway afraid of him; not a deep fear, not dread, just a little quailing fear that he might suddenly pounce upon her and begin kissing her and that she would not have the gumption to push him away.
The Piper's Tune Page 5
