‘Where is that?’
‘Off the Crow Road, in Partick.’
‘Is it comfortable?’
‘Comfortable enough for me.’
‘Good company there?’ Cissie said.
‘It’s quiet,’ Tom answered, ‘very quiet in fact.’
‘I get so tired of crowds, don’t you?’
‘Sometimes.’
‘But you don’t mind your own company?’
‘I get tired of that too occasionally.’
‘Were you tired of your own company when you wrote to me?’
Tom looked down at his plate. The servant had been overgenerous; he doubted if he could do justice to four slices of cold roast beef, two portions of salmon mayonnaise and a lump of potato salad.
‘Mildly homesick more than anything,’ he said.
‘And were you thinking of me?’
‘Martin and I – we’d been talking about…’
‘About me?’ said Cissie, frowning slightly.
‘About home in general, about the things we missed.’ Tom was stretched; it wasn’t a question of being tactful, he had to be cunning as well, and deceit did not come easily. ‘I thought of home quite a lot when I was in Africa. If I’d known you better I’d have written to you then, Cissie. Would you have answered?’
‘I’m not much of a letter-writer,’ Cissie said, then added quickly, ‘Yes, I’d have answered. It’s better, though, to be together, to talk like this, don’t you think? If you go away again, I’ll write. Now that we know each other, we’ll have lots more to write about.’ She peered at him, frowning. ‘Are you going away again?’
‘I hope not,’ Tom said.
‘It wouldn’t be Africa, would it?’
‘I doubt it,’ Tom said.
‘I suppose,’ Cissie said, trying to make light of it, ‘I could come with you, with the team, I mean. High time I saw more of the world.’
‘There are better places to visit than the Niger,’ Tom said.
‘Do you have a child?’
‘Yes, a daughter.’
‘What’s her name?’
‘Sylvie.’
‘She’s not as old as I am, is she?’
‘I wouldn’t think so,’ Tom said. ‘She’s fifteen.’
Cissie nodded. She steadied her plate, broke off a fragment of salmon mayonnaise with her fork and ate it absently. She seemed to be thinking of other things – more questions, perhaps. In profile she was not unlike Lindsay. Tom considered volunteering more information about Sylvie but he was apprehensive lest Cissie and his daughter had met at some point, at school say.
‘I’m twenty-two,’ Cissie said. ‘I’m older than Lindsay, you see. He really was far too young to take an interest in me.’
Owen Franklin’s guests were well into the spirit of the evening.
Noisy and cheerful, they transported cups of punch, glasses of wine and plates of food from drawing-room to dining-room.
A programme of sorts had been arranged. Already Mercy had played a complex Chopin étude, her head held high and haughty while her husband turned the pages for her. Mr Arthur had opened the batting for the Brunswick choir with ‘White Wings They Never Grow Weary’. Amanda Bailey, the Brunswick’s prettiest soprano, had made the light fittings ring and Mr James Holcomb, heir to the Pressed Steel empire, had embarrassed everyone by croaking out ‘Turn the Mangle, Joe’, just before supper was called.
Tom looked down at the heads below.
Owen’s guests were those and such as those: choristers, shipping people, pretty young women whom Tom had noticed at concerts in the City Hall or in boxes at the Royal when the D’Oyly Carte were in town. He wondered why he had been invited. He tried to pretend that he did not know the answer but it was all too obvious that the old boy had asked him along to court Cissie.
Tom said, ‘Heaven knows, it’s not my place to criticise a member of your family but…’ He shrugged.
‘I thought Forbes was right for me.’
‘I’m not sure he’s right for Lindsay either,’ Tom ventured.
‘Lindsay can take care of herself.’
Perhaps she was right. Perhaps Lindsay would be able to make something of the Dubliner. Tom tried to blot from his mind the disparaging manner in which George Crush and Forbes McCulloch talked of women.
‘Do you like Lindsay?’ Cissie said.
The question was too direct to be avoided.
Tom said, ‘Yes.’
‘Is she not too young for you?’
The question was skewed towards an unfavourable answer. He thought for a moment before he replied: ‘I’ve always regarded Lindsay as a very intelligent young lady,’ he said, ‘but she – how can I put this? – she doesn’t seem quite mature enough to be a good wife just yet.’
‘So you wouldn’t marry her?’
He shook his head, lying first by gesture then by word.
How could he tell Cissie that he would marry Lindsay Franklin like a shot if she had not been so far above him. Age had nothing to do with it. He was just the right age, the proper age to take a wife again. He’d had most of the rough edges knocked off over the years, and was materially settled. If he fancied a wife then in an ideal world Lindsay would have been his first choice.
He managed to laugh. ‘No.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes, I’m sure.’ Still smiling, he said, ‘Miss Franklin, for a well-brought-up young lady you ask far too many questions.’
‘Do I?’ she said, pleased. ‘Let me ask you one more then?’
‘What now?’
‘Are you on the programme tonight?’
‘Yes.’
‘Doing what?’
‘I’ve brought along the sheets for “The Blackbird’s Song”.’
‘Don’t sing that,’ Cissie said.
‘Why not?’
‘Do you know “The Kerry Dancing”?’
‘Yes, but I’m not convinced I can do it justice,’ Tom said.
‘I have the music. I’ll accompany you. I’ll lead you through it. Any key that suits your range.’
‘I’m not rehearsed,’ Tom said. ‘Couldn’t you manage…’
She leaned against him again and crooned, ‘“Oh, the days of the Kerry dancing. Oh, the ring of the piper’s tune. Oh, for one of those hours of gladness…” Isn’t it a beautiful melody?’
‘It is,’ Tom agreed.
He wondered why she had chosen that particular song, why she insisted upon it. She seemed far too young to be dreaming of days that were gone.
‘Please, Tom, sing it for me.’
And Tom, gently capitulating, said, ‘If you insist.’
* * *
‘Sickening, isn’t it?’ Forbes said.
‘What is?’ said Lindsay.
‘How she’s throwing herself at him.’
‘I don’t think she’s throwing herself at him at all.’
‘He walks in off the street…’
‘Absolute rot!’ said Lindsay. ‘Pappy invited him.’
‘And we know why, don’t we?’ said Forbes.
‘I expect you have some theory about it,’ said Lindsay who, without definite reason, felt testy and defensive. ‘And I expect you’re going to expound it whether I like it or not.’
‘What’s got into you all of a sudden?’
‘You,’ Lindsay said.
‘Not yet.’ He grinned. ‘Soon, I hope, but not yet.’
‘For God’s sake, Forbes!’
‘Tut-tut! Such language. No, she’s desperate. She’ll take anything. Even old Long Tom there. She won’t find what she’s looking for in his trousers.’
‘You really are foul sometimes.’
‘It’s true, though,’ Forbes said. ‘Doesn’t she realise she’s making a damned fool of herself, whipping him upstairs, hogging him all to herself.’
‘Tom doesn’t seem to object.’
‘Sure and he doesn’t object. It’s the way in, isn’t it?’
‘The way in?’ Lind
say said. ‘If you mean —’
Forbes laughed. ‘Such a nasty thought didn’t even cross my mind. It’s her money he’ll be after, not her endearing young charms.’
‘Cissie doesn’t have any money.’
‘There will be a settlement, though. Bound to be a settlement. If Calder hasn’t the brain to work it out for himself then Martin will have told him.’
‘Not everyone’s as calculating as you are, Forbes.’
‘Do you think I’m calculating, dearest?’
‘Candidly, yes.’
‘Well, it’s just as well one of us is, otherwise we’d both die virgins.’
She was conscious of his hand upon her waist, his forearm against the swell of her dress. His touch was discreet, not impolite. She was almost betrothed to him and no one would think him forward for holding on to her.
‘It always comes down to that with you, doesn’t it?’ Lindsay said. ‘To – to what happens in the bedroom.’
She had imagined that she would want him less as she liked him less, but the illogical desires she had suffered in the first months of courtship had not diminished. Forbes had taught her to think of marriage as something detached from the setting up of a home, from the bearing and raising of children. He had found weaknesses within her that she had not even suspected, moist little hungers that shame and innocence had kept hidden.
‘Sure and it does,’ Forbes said. ‘If Cissie wants him and Calder wants her money then who am I to complain? Not jealous are you?’
No, Lindsay thought, not jealous, just regretful that Cissie and she had somehow exchanged tracks.
‘Oh, look,’ Forbes said, ‘she’s going to play for him. How sweet!’
Tom wore a suit of navy-blue worsted with a high collar. He had put on a string tie. A watch-chain draped his waistcoat and his hair, greying slightly over the ears, was swept back with a lick of brilliantine. He looked, Lindsay thought, perfectly in place and competent in this company. He glanced down at Cissie who had taken her sister’s place on the piano bench. Smiling up, she gave him a key. There was something so dignified about them as a couple that Lindsay realised how sad her father must feel at the passing of the age of innocent communion and companionship.
‘God!’ Forbes hissed. ‘It’s the bloody “Kerry Dance”.’
‘What’s wrong?’ Lindsay whispered. ‘Does it bring back memories?’
‘Does it hell!’ said Forbes.
And Tom, one hand on Cissie’s shoulder, began his song.
* * *
It was close to midnight before the evening’s entertainment concluded. The last song was a stirring male-voice rendition of ‘Hearts of Oak’ which, though English in origin, seemed highly appropriate to a room full of shipbuilders and sent everyone off content.
On tables in the hallway, urns, jugs and teapots had appeared, together with trays of orange sponge cakes to provide Owen’s guests with ‘a chittering bite’ to sustain them on their journeys, short or long. They stood about the hall in topcoats, cloaks and long-fitting pelisses drinking tea or hot chocolate, chatting, reluctant to bring such a jolly evening to an end.
Coat over his arm and music case by his side, Tom sipped tea. He had seldom sung so loudly or so heartily and his larynx was just a little raw; a minor discomfort, he reckoned, a small price to pay for the pleasure he had received and – he was not so modest as all that – the manner in which he had been accepted into the company.
‘Tom!’ Owen Franklin slapped him on the back, almost causing him to spill his tea. ‘Tom! What can I say? How can I thank you for coming this evening? Your contribution was amazing, quite amazing.’
Tom could not recall the old man ever having been so fulsome during his years in management. But Owen Franklin in retirement, Owen Franklin at home, Tom had come to realise, was quite a different fish from the fellow who had ruled the workforce at Aydon Road.
‘Well, thank you, sir, but I wouldn’t call it amazing.’
‘Ah! You don’t know the half of it, lad,’ said Owen. ‘That song you sang, “The Kerry Dancing”, beautiful, just beautiful. Why did you pick that one, may I ask? Been a favourite of mine since first I heard it – what? – fifteen or twenty years ago in the old halls in Mint Street. My dear wife and I both loved it. Devereux – yes, that was his name, Robert Devereux – he sang it. He wasn’t Irish either. Canadian, I think, a fine, light tenor, very smooth. Before your time, of course. Before your time.’ The hand remained on Tom’s shoulder. ‘You’ll come again, Tom, will you not, now you’ve found the way?’
‘I’d be del—’
‘Ah-hah, here she is,’ Owen declared, stretching out an arm. ‘Our little Cissie, the belle of the ball.’ He brought his granddaughter into the circle of his arms and, while Tom juggled teacup and saucer, incorporated Tom too, all three awkwardly linked. ‘What do you think of our Cissie then, Tom?’
‘She’s…’
‘She’s a grand lass, isn’t she?’ Owen said. ‘A grand lass in every way.’
Tom felt a tickle of amusement in his chest. It occurred to him that if Owen Franklin had been this obvious in merchandising the products of the shipyard the firm would have gone into liquidation years ago.
‘Pap-paaay,’ Cissie protested.
‘It’s true, though. Isn’t it, Tom?’
Tom answered obediently, ‘Indeed, it is.’
‘I see you have your shawl on, dearest,’ Owen said. ‘It seems that you are going to have an escort as far as the pavement’s edge, Tom. I’ve sent Giles to the rank so there will be cabs along presently. Cissie, don’t catch cold.’
‘No, Pappy, I won’t.’
Tom put down the cup and saucer, slipped into his overcoat and picked up his music case. Cissie took his arm. The loose silk-tasselled shawl draped about her shoulders lent her, Tom thought, a Romany touch that suited her high colour. He shook hands with Owen Franklin, shook hands with Mr Donald and with Martin who was at that moment just about to escort his fiancée, Aurora Swann, down the steps to a waiting carriage.
‘Are you travelling in my direction, Mr Calder?’ the young woman asked. ‘I am going out to Kessington.’
She was very tall and handsome, smothered in furs, as if winter had not yet given way to spring in Glasgow’s suburbs.
‘Thank you,’ he said, ‘but I do believe I’ll walk home. It’s not far.’
‘I hope we will meet again,’ Aurora said.
‘I’m sure you will,’ said Martin, just as Cissie drew Tom away.
* * *
As soon as they were alone, Cissie relaxed. She did not, however, release her hold on his arm. Several hackney cabs came clopping up from the stand at Woodlands Road, one after the other like a parade. The Franklins’ neighbours were probably used to occasional late-night disturbances and in five or ten minutes it would be over, the Hill grave and quiet again. Tom glanced round but saw no sign of Lindsay or of Forbes McCulloch who, in a manner not quite studied, had managed to avoid him all evening long.
Obeying his own little ritual of propriety, he was reluctant to let Cissie walk him further than the corner of Harper’s Hill or to pass out of sight of the mansion’s wide-open door.
She said, ‘I want to see what’s happening in the Kelvingrove.’
‘What there is left of it,’ Tom said.
‘Have you seen it?’
‘How can I not have seen it?’ Tom said. ‘Building’s been going on for months. There are those who think that Dumbarton Road is beginning to look rather too much like Cairo or Bombay.’
Cissie had gained sufficient confidence to disagree. ‘Nonsense,’ she said. ‘It’s an international exhibition, after all, and I for one like all those minarets and domes. Pansy and I have been sneaking out for weeks now to watch them being erected. It’s very exciting, don’t you think, to have such a thing right on your own doorstep? Come along, let me show you.’
It was a harmless concession to let her lead him across the curve of Park Circus to look down on the almost-co
mpleted site of the Great Exhibition whose ornate halls and international pavilions would, so it was said, put Crystal Palace in the shade. Tom was not sure he agreed with the optimistic view, or the principle behind it. He was as proud of his city as the next man but with war still raging in South Africa he regarded the exhibition not as a jewel in the crown of the municipality but rather as a means of stiffening the sinews of empire.
‘There,’ Cissie said, nudging him towards the railings. ‘Don’t tell me you’re not impressed.’
In spite of himself, he was; the glint of moonlight on the vast area of parkland and the buildings rising spectrally out of leafless trees reminded him of the last great exhibition on this site, thirteen years ago.
As if reading his mind, Cissie said, ‘I remember the last one, do you?’
‘Yes,’ Tom said.
‘I remember the orchestral hall…’
‘Which had terrible acoustics and a whining echo.’
Enthusiasm undampened, Cissie went on, ‘And the sweet manufactory rolling out comfits and peppermint rock. And,’ a breath, ‘the gondolas on the river and the little steamer that my pappy built. We sailed up and down the Kelvin on that steamer under fairy lights and lanterns in the trees – oh, I don’t know how many times.’
Tom remembered the steamer only too well, a tiny craft, hardly more than a launch with a miniature coal-fired engine, and how he had worked on its design with Mr Owen and what he had learned in the process. The steamer had been Franklin’s contribution to the municipal commonweal, but this year the firm had not been invited to contribute.
Tom remembered other things about the 1888 exhibition too, things that he would not reveal to Cissie: a week before it had opened his wife had admitted her adultery, one of them, and a week before it had closed she had died.
He had taken Sylvie, aged two, to the Groveries several times, just his tiny, doll-like, vacant-eyed daughter and he queuing for a ride on the switchback and, like Cissie, riding down river on Franklin’s steamer amid the gondolas and electric launches. He still remembered how uninterested Sylvie had been, how nothing had seemed to excite her attention, nothing except the captive balloon advertising Waterbury’s Watches that floated high overhead, swaying and waltzing on the end of its cable. How Sylvie had loved that balloon. Roused from her infant trance, she had pointed at the sky and cried out to possess it, to have him bring it down and place it in her hand like an orb. He also remembered how three days after Dorothy’s death he had allowed Albert Hartnell to wheedle him into the Bodega Bar in the main building and how, for the first and last time in his life, he had got raging drunk; how all the bitterness, all the venom in his soul had spewed out and it had taken Hartnell and three of Franklin’s employees all their strength to drag him outside into the rain.
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