‘What fact is that?’
‘Our meeting was engineered.’
‘Ah!’
‘We weren’t flung together. We were brought together.’
‘Ah-hah!’
‘Ponder for a moment,’ Cissie said, ‘and you’ll see that I’m right.’
‘Yes,’ Tom said. ‘I believe you are.’
‘Pappy thinks you’re the man for me, and what my pappy says goes.’
‘What do you think, Cissie?’ Tom asked.
‘I think,’ Cissie answered, ‘that my dear old pappy has the soundest judgement of any person I know.’
‘Does that mean…’
‘That you are the man for me? Of course it does,’ said Cissie. ‘There now, my dear Mr Calder, does that put your mind at rest?’
‘No,’ Tom said.
‘No?’
‘It means I’ve got to start taking you seriously.’
‘Not too seriously, I hope.’
‘No,’ Tom said, ‘not too seriously. Not just yet,’ and, holding the brolly high, swept her through the gate of the ’Groveries into the ground of the Great Exhibition.
* * *
Thin grey cloud brought a prematurely early dusk. By nine o’clock the house on Brunswick Crescent was in shadow and, to Lindsay, seemed empty and sad.
Papa had somehow managed to obtain tickets for the Sousa concert and had taken Miss Runciman with him as a treat. Cook and Maddy had also gone to the exhibition but their tastes ran more to riding the water chute and the switchback. Lindsay had volunteered to stay at home to look after Nanny Cheadle who was too frail now to be left alone.
Nanny had been fed early. Lindsay had read to her until she had fallen asleep. She slept a great deal. Papa said that she would simply sleep her life away without pain or concern, for she knew that her time on earth was almost over and that she would soon have her reward in heaven. It was, Lindsay knew, no mawkish sentiment but a reflection of the crusty belief in God’s mercy that sustained all die-hard Presbyterians. She didn’t know what she believed in these days or what would sustain her when the end became the beginning, the beginning the end for, unlike Nanny Cheadle, she did not dwell secure in a knowledge of God.
She ate a cold supper in the dining-room, cleared the table and carried the dishes down to the kitchen. She looked in on Nanny once more, offered her tea, but the old woman was too drowsy to respond and, after lighting a wax night-light and placing it in a water-dish, Lindsay came downstairs again.
She was restless, loose-endish, agitated. She tried to study an article in The Shipbuilder but couldn’t summon up concentration. She tried to lose herself in a novel but found that she had no interest in the fate of the fabricated characters. She closed the parlour door, tinkled listlessly on the piano, listened for Nanny, picked out another few bars of musical-hall melody, then, to her vast relief, heard the front doorbell ring. She went at once to open it.
‘Forbes! What are you doing here?’
‘I want a quiet word with you,’ he said. ‘You don’t seem awfully pleased to see me. Aren’t you going to let me in?’
‘Of course.’
She stood back and allowed him to enter. She watched him take off his oilskin slicker and hang it and his cap upon the hallstand. His hair was damp and he had a slightly dishevelled look that suggested he had walked from Aydon Road or, though she could not imagine why, all the way from the Institute.
She said, ‘Is it still raining?’
‘No, it’s stopped.’ He glanced at the darkened staircase; Lindsay had not yet thought to put on the lights. ‘Where is everyone?’
‘They’ve gone to the exhibition.’
‘What, all of them? Nanny too?’
‘No, Nanny’s too sick to go anywhere.’
He pointed at the ceiling. ‘Is she upstairs?’
‘Yes.’
‘Breathing her last?’
‘She’s asleep, Forbes, that’s all.’
He sauntered past Lindsay into the parlour.
‘Can’t last much longer, though, can she?’ he said.
‘Probably not.’
Lindsay reached for the electrical light switch but Forbes said, ‘Leave it. Gloaming’s more romantic, don’t you think?’
‘I’m not feeling terribly romantic to tell the truth,’ Lindsay said. ‘Do you want something to eat?’
‘I thought you said the cook was out.’
‘She is. I’ll make you an omelette if you like. I’m not entirely useless.’
‘I know you’re not,’ he said. ‘So they’re all out, are they? Well, well!’
Lindsay moved away. Circling the upright music-stand, avoiding the sofa, she perched on one of the hard chairs that flanked the fireplace.
The fire had been set but not lighted. The day had been stiflingly hot and the air in the parlour had a sour, bakehouse smell that the rain had not eliminated. The recesses of the room were in almost total darkness but the light in the window was strengthened by contrast and Forbes moved against it like a shadow-shape.
‘I haven’t seen you in days,’ she said. ‘Where have you been?’
‘Busy,’ he said. ‘Very busy.’
‘When are the diploma exams?’
‘Too damned soon.’
‘Are you not prepared?’
‘As prepared as I’ll ever be.’
She put her hands on her knees and rocked a little. She was embarrassed to be alone with him. She struggled to find something to say, anything to say: ‘You won’t fail, will you?’
‘Of course I won’t fail,’ he said. ‘And once I’ve got it, Linnet, I’m not going to hang around. I expect she’ll be gone by then, your old Nanny, and those rooms upstairs will be vacant.’
‘Forbes…’
‘Talk to him. No, sod it, don’t talk to him. Tell him. Tell him you want to marry me and can’t wait any longer.’
‘You’re too young, Forbes. You’re—’
‘Christ!’ he said.
She lost sight of him as he merged with the shapes in the room.
Then she felt his hands upon her. He caught her under the armpits, pulling taut the fabric of her tea-gown.
She gave a little cry as he lifted her, then yielded, sliding from the chair into his arms. He thrust his mouth down, licked her neck with a tongue that was as rough and as sleek as a cat’s. He kissed her mouth. She felt the sudden thickness of his tongue, the fierce weird thickness of penetration. When he pulled away she pursued him, seeking that wet, writhing contact once more. She did not even enjoy it: she needed it. He swung her around him, both her feet off the floor. He kicked the piano bench. It toppled and fell. He pushed her against the piano. She felt the hard satinwood mouldings press on her buttocks and spine, crushing her summer garments. He pinned his forearm across her breasts and pushed his hand between her legs.
She groaned when the heel of his hand found her, cupping her so fiercely that even through three layers of clothing she felt as if he might tear that part from her. She tilted her hips. When he took his hand away and pressed his body against her skirts she wrapped her arms about his waist and pulled him closer, so smotheringly close that there seemed to be nothing between them. She was aware that his breathing had become shorter and sharper until it seemed to have within it an element almost of panic; then, as she sagged against him, spending, he released three or four sharp little cries, high-pitched and more feminine than her own. She clung to him, trembling, appalled at the alacrity with which it had come about, at its clumsiness.
It was not as she had imagined it would be. She felt weakened by her inability to refuse him his will. She tried to stand upright but her knees were like jelly and Forbes, gasping, held on to her, not tenderly or demandingly but simply for support.
After a moment or two he pushed himself away. Saying nothing, offering no apology, no explanation, no word of gratitude or affection, he turned his back on her and attended to himself.
‘Forbes…’
He glanced
over his shoulder, his face chalk white in the half darkness.
‘You’d better do something about that mess,’ he said.
Lindsay touched a hand to her dress.
‘Yes,’ she said, ‘I’d better,’ and hurried upstairs to change.
* * *
Her father looked up from his bacon and eggs. He had already demolished a full plate of porridge and several slices of hot buttered toast and, with the sun at his back, had a purring, contented air that Lindsay could only put down to the influence of John Philip Sousa bouncing through ‘The Washington Post’.
She seated herself cautiously at the breakfast table. She had no pain, no actual discomfort, for nothing had been taken from her, but she felt leaden and listless and more than a little guilty at what had occurred last night.
‘How was the concert?’ she made herself enquire.
Miss Runciman, also purring a little, doled out porridge.
‘A wonderful experience,’ the woman said. ‘Do you not agree?’
‘I do. I do,’ Arthur Franklin said. ‘Quite stunning, in fact.’
‘Scintillating, I believe, was the word you used last evening.’
‘Was it? Yes, that’s the word for it – scintillating.’
‘Such precision,’ said Miss Runciman, passing a plate to Lindsay. ‘Such meticulous phrasing. I have never heard trombones like it.’
‘And the timpani…’
‘Certainly made my heart beat faster,’ Miss Runciman said.
Arthur scooped up a forkful of crisply fried egg and put it into his mouth. He made a round eye, then said, ‘How are you, Linnet? How was your evening? Did anyone call?’
‘Call?’
‘On the telephone?’
‘No, no one called,’ said Lindsay.
‘You were in bed early, were you not?’ said Miss Runciman.
‘Well, Eleanor, we were rather late coming home,’ Arthur put in. ‘After eleven it must have been.’
‘I heard you,’ Lindsay said. ‘I wasn’t asleep.’
‘Nanny no trouble?’ said Arthur.
‘None. She slept through – all evening, I mean.’
‘She is not a well woman,’ Miss Runciman said. ‘I fear she—’
‘Hush now,’ Arthur said. ‘Let’s not hurry the poor soul away. She’ll leave us in her own good time.’
‘In God’s good time,’ said Miss Runciman.
‘Quite!’ said Arthur. ‘Oh, by the way, Lindsay, guess who we saw in the concert hall last evening?’
‘I can’t.’
‘Go on, have a pop at it.’
‘Papa, I can’t. Really.’
‘Your cousin Cissie.’
‘Oh?’
‘In the company of Tom Calder, no less.’
‘Together?’ Lindsay said.
‘Absolutely,’ her father said. ‘No question about it, is there, Eleanor?’
‘None whatsoever,’ Miss Runciman said. ‘Behaving like lovebirds they were. That, if you ask me, is a match in the making.’
‘Nonsense!’ Lindsay heard herself say. ‘Tom isn’t interested in Cissie.’
‘Oh, yes, he is,’ Arthur said. ‘And if he isn’t then he ought to be horse-whipped for leading the poor lass on.’
‘Love-birds, what do you mean by “love-birds”?’ Lindsay said, almost indignantly. ‘Tom isn’t the “love-bird” type.’
‘How do you know?’ said Eleanor Runciman.
‘I – I just do.’
‘Men change,’ Miss Runciman said. ‘Do they not, Mr Arthur?’
‘Indeed, they do. “Take a Pair of Sparkling Eyes”, and all that.’
‘Cissie’s eyes don’t sparkle,’ Lindsay said.
‘Ah, but they do,’ her father said. ‘At least Tom Calder thinks they do.’
‘What were they doing?’ Lindsay said.
‘Listening to the music,’ her father said.
‘And holding hands,’ Miss Runciman added.
‘In public?’
‘Good Lord, Lindsay, what’s got into you today?’ said her father. ‘Got out of the wrong side of the bed, did you?’
‘She isn’t for him,’ Lindsay said. ‘Cissie isn’t right for Tom Calder.’
‘That’s not for you to say,’ Miss Runciman reprimanded. ‘After all there are those who might think that Forbes McCulloch isn’t right for you.’
‘Who?’ Lindsay said. ‘Come along, out with it – who?’
‘Oh, please,’ Arthur said. ‘Don’t squabble. It’s a beautiful morning and we should all be glad to be alive and fit enough to enjoy it.’
‘Do you think Forbes is wrong for me, Miss Runciman?’
‘Not I,’ Miss Runciman answered, emphatically.
‘Papa?’
Arthur Franklin shrugged. ‘Not for me to say, dearest, though I admit that Forbes isn’t the sort of chap I’d have picked for you, given choice.’
‘You don’t have a choice.’ Lindsay realised that she was behaving badly. She had ruined her father’s breakfast and his bountiful mood, but guilt made her headstrong and she pushed on, angrily. ‘Forbes is my choice. My choice, do you hear? What’s more I do intend to marry him.’
‘Well,’ her father said placatingly, ‘we’ll see, we’ll see.’
Lindsay threw down her napkin and got to her feet. ‘We will not see. I will marry Forbes if I want to and there’s nothing you can do to stop me.’
‘That’s true,’ said Arthur, sighing.
‘I’m tired of waiting. I intend to marry Forbes as soon as possible.’
‘Where will you stay?’ Miss Runciman said innocently.
‘Here.’
‘Perhaps Forbes – your young man,’ Miss Runciman said, ‘will not be so keen to share you and a house with us.’
‘Yes, he will. It was his idea in the first place.’
‘I might have known it,’ Arthur said. ‘I might have damned well known that he would find a way of getting his feet under my table.’ He leaned an elbow on the tablecloth and crashed his cheek into his fist. ‘There’s no stopping them, is there. Like mother, like son.’
‘What do you mean by that?’ Lindsay demanded.
‘He doesn’t mean anything by it,’ Miss Runciman said.
‘Keep out of it, Eleanor, please,’ Arthur Franklin said. ‘This is a family affair now and doesn’t concern you.’
‘Pardon me, sir, but I think it does,’ Miss Runciman said. ‘I think you’re going to need a cool head and an objective opinion in the very near future.’
‘Do you?’ said Arthur, suddenly more puzzled than annoyed. ‘And what might that “objective opinion” be?’
‘That you consider Lindsay’s suggestion very, very carefully.’
‘And then what do I do?’
‘Accept it graciously,’ Eleanor Runciman said.
* * *
Monday was incredibly hot. The torpedo-boat destroyer, the first of six ordered by Baron Yamamoto, Japan’s Minister of Marine, was taking shape in the stocks. She was partly plated and her lines well defined but blistering temperatures inside the hull meant that work upon her had slowed to an unacceptable degree.
Mr Arthur had ordered butts brought down to the slip and had appointed several lads to relay canisters of fresh water up the ladders to help the platers and riveters survive, for the Clydesiders – hard men, as tough as they come – were more used to coping with drenching rain and biting cold than a Mediterranean-style heat-wave. By midday several apprentices and one elderly ganger had collapsed with heat-prostration and the moulding loft had been transformed into a hospital where Hector Garrard, an ex-ship’s doctor, applied cold packs, hot tea and Belladonna powders before deciding if the patient was fit to return to work or had better be sent home.
George Crush disapproved of Mr Arthur’s mollycoddling approach. He regarded the heat-stroke victims as mere malingerers and had spent the morning tramping up and down the planks, berating the foremen for condoning laziness. He would have invaded the loft too, t
o prod and poke at the prostrate forms on the stretchers there but he was afraid of Hector Garrard who had told him more than once that he would be fortunate to see fifty if he continued to let his temper play havoc with his blood pressure.
The drawing office wasn’t much cooler than the yard in spite of wide-open windows and a couple of motor-driven fans that seemed to do nothing but stir the heat like broth in a pot. Pencils became slippery, pens recalcitrant. T-squares, compasses and scales accumulated sweat no matter how often they were wiped and two complex drawings of emergency steering equipment were so badly stained that they had to be scrapped. Nobody was comfortable, nobody happy; nobody, that is, except Tom Calder who seemed to thrive on shimmer and glare and who, on that particular Monday morning, would have crawled inside a Scotch boiler with a smile on his face.
Tom would have preferred to be sipping iced tea under a striped awning on the veranda of the Mackintosh Tea House, of course, or sampling a dish of lemon sorbet under the trees, or if push came to shove strolling the shady side of the piazza with his arm about Cissie Franklin’s waist. Life was never quite perfect, however, and mere contemplation of such pleasures kept Tom from boiling up and boiling over like several of his managerial colleagues.
It was early afternoon before he abandoned his board and left the drawing office for a breath of air. He went downstairs into the lane that split the yard, turned right and headed for the snout of land at the corner of the slip around which, in nine weeks’ time, the first of the Jap destroyers would slide smoothly into the river. He had rolled down his sleeves, put the stud back into his collar and tightened his tie. He did not, however, deem it necessary to wear his jacket, for, manager or not, he had no intention of melting just for the sake of dignity. He lit a cigarette and, between inhalations, hummed the opening bars of ‘Under the Double Eagle’ which, though not the most romantic of tunes, had connotations that Tom could not ignore.
He glanced up at the half-built torpedo-boat destroyer and waved cheerily to two half-naked platers who were hanging, gasping, over the stern.
They, rather startled, waved back.
Still singing to himself, still puffing on his cigarette, Tom moved towards the water’s edge to catch a faint whiff of breeze and enjoy the luxury of a few minutes of privacy while he tried to fathom why he had been invited to spend a week of the July holiday at Mr Owen Franklin’s country house in Perthshire. He had nothing to keep him in Glasgow but he knew that if he did accept and if Cissie were there too – which undoubtedly she would be – then he would be committing himself irrevocably, and that among the ranks of middle-class traditionalists she would become ‘his Cissie’ and he would be stamped as ‘her man’. He was not dismayed at the prospect.
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