‘A fuss? He’s molesting you, Cissie.’
‘I think that’s putting it rather too strongly.’
‘If you don’t put an end to it he’ll take it as a sign that you’re willing.’
‘Willing?’
‘To go further.’
‘I hope you’re not suggesting I that encourage him.’
‘Of course not,’ said Lindsay. ‘None the less, a word to Martin…’
‘Martin wouldn’t understand.’
‘Oh, I think he would,’ said Lindsay. ‘When he kisses you, Forbes I mean, does he—?’
‘Yes,’ Cissie interrupted, cheeks glowing. ‘Yes, he does.’
‘He must be stopped,’ said Lindsay.
Cissie sighed. ‘I know. I know.’
‘He isn’t in love with you, Cissie. He’s just using you.’
‘I’m not sure that is the case.’
‘Cissie!’
‘Well, yes, I suppose you’re right. I just keep thinking: What if he really is in love with me? What if he’s too inexperienced to…’
‘Inexperienced?’
‘You know what I mean – too young to express his feelings.’
‘Look, would you like me to tackle him?’ Such a solution had obviously not occurred to Cissie; it had only just occurred to Lindsay. ‘Perhaps he’d take heed of me.’
‘Why would he take heed of you?’
‘Because I’m a fellow partner on Franklin’s board.’
‘That’s plain silly,’ said Cissie.
‘No, it isn’t,’ Lindsay said. ‘Forbes is very ambitious. I’d point out what he’s risking by behaving so badly. Point out what he stands to lose if he persists in taking advantage of you.’
‘Has he tried any of this nonsense with you?’ said Cissie.
‘No.’
‘Perhaps you’re too young for him.’
‘I’m only six months younger than you are,’ Lindsay said. ‘It isn’t me I’m concerned about. What if he sets his sights on Mercy or – heaven help us – Pansy? Think of the effect being molested would have on them.’
‘Devastating,’ Cissie agreed.
‘Do you see,’ Lindsay said, ‘why we have to put a stop to it?’
‘Perhaps we should tell Martin.’
‘Let me talk to Forbes first.’
‘Why you?’
‘I told you, dearest. I think he respects me.’
‘I’m older.’
‘Ah, but I’m the partner.’
* * *
Tom Calder received four hundred and twenty pounds in annual salary. Being a man of abstemious habits with only one dependent relative – Sylvie – he managed to rub along quite well on that sum, for, unlike George Crush, he hadn’t pushed himself into debt by taking a mortgage on a suburban villa. He lived in a residential boarding-house on Queensview where he rented not just a bedroom but also a snug little parlour. He had his career, his singing, his daughter and, by way of a weakness, a partiality for sugary foods that made the cry of the ice-cream vendor at the park’s western gate seem like a siren song.
Tom purchased a cornet with two scoops of ice-cream decorated with raspberry syrup. He curled his tongue over the surface and uttered a little hmmm of pure pleasure. For a moment, satisfaction softened the bleakness of his gaze and, licking diligently, he wandered through the gate and along the pathway that led to the fountain.
Quite unhurried, quite unconcerned, he did not much care if he encountered Florence or Albert or if he did not. He had called upon them last week to settle the bills and had been received by Sylvie with an unctuousness that he found harder to swallow than her sulks. He had noticed that Sylvie had begun to show discernible signs of femaleness, an indication that Florence would not be able to dress her up like a china doll for very much longer. He was just spiteful enough to wonder how his sister-in-law and her husband would cope with a capricious adolescent and how long it would take them to realise that they had raised a wilful little monster. He was still thinking of Sylvie when he spotted the Franklin girls on the opposite bank of the river.
They were no great distance from him, fifty or sixty yards at most. Their summer frocks and hats made splurges of colour in the blue and green shadows of the trees and Tom contemplated them for a moment or two before recognition dawned. His first impulse was to ditch the ice-cream and call out to them. Instead, hastily munching, he matched his pace to theirs until their ways converged at the iron footbridge.
‘Miss Franklin,’ he said. ‘Miss Lindsay.’ He did not offer his sticky hand but took off his straw boater and held it politely by his trouser-leg.
‘Why, Mr Calder,’ Lindsay said, ‘I hardly recognised you.’
‘Oh! I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to intrude.’
‘It’s not the intrusion,’ Lindsay said. ‘It’s the hat.’
‘Haven’t you seen me in a hat before?’
‘Often, but not a boater – or a striped jacket, for that matter.’
Cissie Franklin continued to glower at him as if he were a labourer who had forgotten his place.
‘Have you been boating?’ Lindsay said.
Tom felt like a small steam-powered engine that had been idle for too long. The pistons moved sluggishly: he could think of no witty reply. He told the truth. ‘I’ve been eating ice-cream.’
‘And that,’ said Lindsay, ‘is your ice-cream suit, I take it.’
He looked down at his perfectly ordinary blazer and cream-coloured flannel trousers. He had bought them in Dawson & McNicholl’s, the merchant tailors, to wear on his trip to Africa but even before he’d arrived at Burutu he had realised how daft the notion had been and had left them folded in brown paper in the bottom of his trunk.
‘What’s wrong with it?’ he said.
‘Not a thing,’ said Lindsay. ‘It’s very fetching.’
Tom was not so lacking in humour as all that. ‘Now you’re going to ask me where I fetched it from?’
Lindsay laughed. She looked remarkably pretty, a good deal less earnest than she did at management meetings. He was tempted to raise some serious matter of business to put her in her place but on a May day in the ’Groveries nothing, absolutely nothing, was more serious than a pretty girl in a floral hat.
Tom let out an undetectable sigh.
Lindsay said, ‘Are you meeting someone?’
‘No one in particular.’
‘Why don’t you walk with us then?’
‘Lind-say!’ Cissie Franklin protested in a stage whisper.
‘I don’t wish to…’
He caught the glance that Lindsay gave her cousin but could not interpret it. Some female code or understanding veiled its meaning. He knew nothing about women really, just enough to be sure that the girls weren’t flirting.
‘Your company would be very welcome, Mr Calder,’ Lindsay said.
‘At least as far as the fountain,’ Cissie added.
Then he thought he understood. Some chap, some masher had been making a nuisance of himself and the Franklin girls required male protection for a time. ‘It would be my pleasure,’ he said. ‘As far as the fountain.’
They made their way on to the Radnor, the broad tree-lined avenue that divided Kelvingrove into two halves. Tom found Miss Cissie Franklin one side of him and Miss Lindsay Franklin on the other. Each slid an arm into his and step-in-step, like a team of dancers, they wheeled left and sallied through the foot traffic, heading Tom knew not where.
And didn’t much care.
* * *
‘Good Lord!’ Martin said. ‘We leave you to your own devices for five blessed minutes and you come back with some poor chap in tow.’ He grinned, offered his hand. ‘Tom, how are you?’
‘I’m very well, thank you.’
‘Beautiful day, is it not?’
‘Beautiful.’
‘We’ve been tossed out,’ Martin said. ‘My grandfather’s in the throes of packing and Mama wants us out of the way. And you, what are you doing with yourself, apart from
rescuing damsels in distress?’
‘Hardly in distress,’ Tom said. ‘In fact, I think they rescued me.’
‘Oh, from what?’ Martin said. ‘Some woman’s nefarious attentions?’
‘No,’ Tom said.
‘No such luck, what?’ Martin extended an arm and gathered his flock to him. ‘Ross and Johnny I believe you know. And surely you remember my sisters, Pansy and Mercy?’
‘Indeed I do,’ said Tom.
‘From the choir,’ said Pansy. ‘You’re a tenor, are you not?’
‘I am.’
‘Mr Calder also designs ships,’ said Lindsay.
‘I know that,’ said Pansy. ‘I’m not a baby.’
‘You were in Africa, were you not?’ Mercy said. ‘You went to the Niger to put our boats together.’
Tom noted the pronoun, ‘our’ boats. Although she probably couldn’t tell a spar from a splinter, young Mercy Franklin had more claim to ownership of the Niger stern-wheelers than he did. He felt no resentment. Unlike George Crush he wasn’t tarred with the Socialist brush. Besides, Mercy was a pretty wee thing and he was becoming rather susceptible to pretty wee things. Cissie, he realised, had claimed his arm again.
‘Did you like Africa?’ Pansy asked.
‘Not much, to be truthful.’
‘Did you meet any cannibals?’
‘Pansy, don’t talk rot,’ Ross said.
‘Oh, yes,’ Tom answered. ‘I dined with them several times.’
There was silence. Tom wondered if he had overstepped the mark of decency, then Martin laughed and the girls followed suit.
Cissie nudged him in the ribs. ‘Oh, Tom, you are a card,’ she said, and darted a glance at the dark-eyed, dark-haired young man who loitered at the back of the group. ‘Forbes, I don’t believe you’ve met Tom yet, have you?’
‘Tom’s our chief designer, a wizard with compasses and scale,’ Martin said. ‘I don’t know what we’d do without him.’
Cissie clung to him fondly. ‘Nor do I.’
Tom detected sullen hostility in Forbes McCulloch’s eyes. Snobbery or shyness? he wondered. Although he was a dozen years older than the oldest person in the group, the role that the girls had invented for him made Tom feel quite sprightly.
‘Unless I’m mistaken,’ he said, ‘you’re the new partner. We’ll be seeing a lot more of you when you’ve finished your year at Beardmore’s. It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mr McCulloch.’
‘Likewise, I’m sure,’ Forbes answered sourly.
* * *
‘I didn’t know you had a lover,’ Forbes said.
‘He isn’t my lover,’ said Cissie.
‘A fiancé then.’
‘He isn’t that either.’
‘Is he bucking to be your sweetheart?’
‘No, he’s just a friend,’ said Cissie.
‘He’s far too old to be your friend,’ Forbes groused. ‘Is he married?’
‘No.’
Lindsay’s inspired notion to pretend that Mr Calder was her sweetheart had worked a treat so far. Cissie had the Irish cousin right where she wanted him. She felt very gay as she strolled along behind Lindsay and the man who was supposed to be her sweetheart. Martin and Johnny were not far behind, though Mercy, Pansy and Ross had wandered off to the river to look at the ducklings. They would meet up shortly at the Refreshment Rooms where, Sunday or not, pots of tea and little iced buns were dispensed and there were green iron tables and green iron chairs upon the grass under the trees.
‘How long have you known him?’ Forbes asked.
Cissie felt her advantage slip slightly. She increased her pace to close the gap between her and the man in the striped blazer. From the rear he looked a little like one of those dandies that were the source of music-hall jokes; not a handsome chap, he had – je ne sais quoi, she thought – presence, character, something like that. ‘Years,’ she answered. ‘Absolute years.’
‘He thinks you’re just a kiddie.’
‘He does not.’
‘You can tell by the way he treats you.’
‘How does he treat me, Mr Know-All?’
‘Like a kiddie,’ Forbes said. ‘Not the way I’d be treating you if you’d give me half a chance. Anyhow, he’s a only draughtsman.’
‘He’s our chief designer and a department manager,’ Cissie said. ‘There’s nothing wrong in keeping company with a manager.’
‘He’s more taken with Lindsay than he is with you.’
‘He is not.’
‘Sure and he is. Just look at them together.’
‘Stuff and nonsense!’ Cissie said haughtily, though she had a very uncomfortable feeling that Forbes might be right.
* * *
Lindsay said, ‘I take it you know what’s going on?’
‘I have a vague idea, yes,’ Tom answered.
‘I hope you don’t mind being dragged into it.’
‘Not in the slightest.’
‘He’s such a painful young man, so pushing and conceited.’
‘Is that why you like him?’ Tom said.
‘I do not like him,’ Lindsay said. ‘It’s Cissie he fancies.’
‘Fancying girls at his age – tut, tut,’ Tom said.
‘I’ll bet you weren’t so forward when you were seventeen.’
‘No, but I’m not a Franklin,’ Tom said.
She glanced at him quickly. ‘Is that what you think of us?’
‘The Franklins have always done well by me,’ Tom said, ‘as well as a person in my position can expect.’
‘Your position?’
‘Department manager.’
‘You’re our principal designer.’
‘I’m really just an engineer at heart.’
Lindsay laughed. ‘My father says that engineers don’t have hearts.’
Tom laughed too. ‘He’s not far wrong.’
‘That was during the strike, of course. Did you down tools with the rest?’
‘I’m not a member of the Amalgamation.’
‘You were on our side, you mean?’
‘I’m on nobody’s side but my own,’ Tom said.
Conversation lagged: Lindsay wondered if she had offended him. The fact that they sat side by side on the board of management was immaterial. He would always be the worker, she the drone. Then she noticed that he was staring at a woman and child in the crowd, a girl, small and doll-like in a frilly dress and a tiny bonnet that barely concealed her ringlets. The girl clung to the woman’s hand as if the bustle of the park scared her but when she caught sight of Tom she scuffed her high-button boots into the gravel and acted more coy than shy.
‘Who is that?’ Lindsay enquired before she could help herself.
‘No one.’
‘If you wish to speak with them, please do.’
‘No.’ Tom hesitated. ‘I do not wish to speak with them,’ and walked on, stiff now and resolute, leaving the woman and child behind.
* * *
‘Tom Calder,’ Lindsay said.
‘What about Tom Calder?’ her father said.
‘Does he have a family?’
‘I believe there’s a daughter,’ Arthur said, ‘farmed out somewhere.’
‘Farmed out?’
‘Looked after by a relative, that sort of thing.’
‘No wife?’
‘She died some years ago.’ Her father looked up from his dinner plate. ‘Why the sudden interest in Tom Calder?’
‘We met him in the park this afternoon.’
Miss Runciman said, ‘Was the daughter with him?’
‘No. He walked with Cissie and me for a while. He even took tea with us.’
‘Tea at the Hill?’ said Miss Runciman.
‘In the park.’
‘They serve tea in the park now, do they?’ Nanny Cheadle said. ‘What’s the world coming too? It’ll be dancing next.’
‘What age is Mr Calder’s daughter?’ Lindsay asked, after a pause.
‘About twelve or thirteen,’
Papa answered. ‘Calder had some time off at the birth, I seem to remember, then again when his wife passed away.’
‘Before he went to Africa?’
‘Long before.’
‘Is this the same Mr Calder who sings in the choir?’ Miss Runciman said.
‘Yes,’ Lindsay answered.
‘Ah,’ said Miss Runciman. ‘I recall him. Tall gentleman, rather grim.’
‘He isn’t at all grim when you get to know him,’ Lindsay said.
‘Well,’ Miss Runciman said, ‘in my experience gentlemen with tragic pasts frequently develop hidden depths to compensate. How old is he, I wonder?’
‘Ancient,’ Lindsay said. ‘Absolutely ancient.’ And, before the housekeeper could press her further, swiftly let the matter drop.
CHAPTER FIVE
A Kiss and a Promise
For as many summers as Lindsay could remember, the Franklins had holidayed at the Bruce Hotel in Rothesay on the Isle of Bute. Rothesay was not regarded as a particularly fashionable resort but it had the advantage of being easily reached by boat from Glasgow and offered a multitude of diversions, from sea-water bathing to golf and tennis, and jolly concert parties in the Winter Garden. This summer, however, the pattern had changed. It wasn’t off to the seaside but into the country that the Franklins trekked when the shipyard closed in mid-July. They steamed out of Queen Street in a first-class railway carriage and disembarked a couple of hours later at Perth railway station. There they were led by a team of porters to a horse-drawn charabanc that transported them across the Tay into the hills and forests of terra incognita where, for reasons that still remained obscure, Owen Franklin had chosen to hide himself away.
It was a two-hour drive but the weather was fair and the younger members of the family, Lindsay included, joined enthusiastically in the choruses that Martin insisted they sing ‘to let the old man know we’re coming’. Metalled roads gave way to tracks, small towns became hamlets, hamlets mere isolated cottages and then, at last, the horses clopped into the tiny community of Kelkemmit and on a hill among the pines across a dark loch the house of Strathmore hove into view, not giddy or grand but, to Lindsay at least, a bit of a disappointment.
‘Is that it?’ Cissie sang out. ‘Martin, are you sure?’
‘Ask Mama if you don’t believe me.’
The driver, a youngish chap with hair like burned heather, called back, ‘Aye, yon’s the big house. We will be there in ten minutes.’
The Piper's Tune Page 8
