The Piper's Tune

by Jessica Stirling

  ‘It’s the submarine, isn’t it?’ Cissie said.

  ‘How do you know about the submarine? Did Tom tell you?’

  ‘No, Tom’s said not a word. I peeped at his papers.’

  ‘Cissie Franklin!’

  ‘If four hundred common shipwrights know what’s going on at Aydon Road why shouldn’t the wife of a manager?’

  ‘That isn’t the point.’

  ‘I notice that you know what’s going on, about the submarine.’

  ‘It’s a matter of being trusted with a secret and keeping it.’

  ‘It is a submarine, though, aren’t I right?’

  Lindsay hesitated. ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’m not so simple as I look, you know.’

  Cissie detached her son’s thumb from his mouth and, as he cuddled into her, tousled his fair hair with her fingertips. On the floor behind the sofa Harry was seated cross-legged, happily imitating the sound of a circular saw and waving his arms in an attempt to induce his ‘cousin’ to come and play with him again. Philip, very lightly, snored.

  ‘How long,’ Cissie said, ‘does it take to build a submarine?’

  ‘I’m not sure.’

  ‘Is that also a state secret?’

  ‘Completion date is the twenty-fifth of May.’

  ‘So Lieutenant Paget will be in Glasgow until May, will he?’

  ‘Lieutenant Commander,’ Lindsay said.

  Cissie laughed. ‘Of course, of course. Lieutenant Commander. Will he?’

  ‘I hope he will,’ said Lindsay. ‘I rather like him.’

  ‘Is he definitely coming to your musical evening?’

  ‘If he’s not on duty.’

  ‘If he’s not on duty,’ said Cissie, wryly. ‘He won’t be on duty.’

  ‘What makes you say that?’

  ‘Because’ – Cissie grinned wickedly – ‘I think he rather likes you too.’

  * * *

  Owen had been reluctant to leave the city at that cruel time of year. He’d had a heavy cold before Christmas and a chesty cough that had persisted into the New Year in spite of Dr Hough’s best efforts to shift it. It was not Glasgow’s gay social whirl that inclined Owen to linger in Harper’s Hill but, rather, a stultifying weakness of the spirit and something akin to depression.

  ‘Go abroad. Go to the south of France,’ Donald had ranted. ‘God Almighty, Pappy, it isn’t as if you can’t afford it.’

  ‘The King pops off for weeks on end. If it’s good enough for Teddy,’ Martin had put in, ‘it should be good enough for you.’

  He did not go abroad. He had never willingly gone abroad, even when Kath was alive. Such trips as there had been were undertaken purely in pursuit of business. He took no pleasure in being far away from home. That said, he had to confess that Strathmore had grown upon him. He felt almost as much at home there as he did in Glasgow. His longing to be in the city, at the centre of things, had waned with the years. He was happy enough to take off for the country with a few old cronies for company or even to be on his own, with Giles to see to his needs. When the lease of the old house came up for renewal he hadn’t thought twice about signing for another five years.

  He was slightly less than eager to entertain Sir Robert Montgomery Raeburn and his wife, Edith, however. He could not imagine what had got into him back in the late summer when he had promised them a week’s board and lodging in the snowy season. It was a promise that could not be broken, though, for Bob Raeburn was president of the Institute of Marine Engineers and Shipbuilders and had been a friend of sorts for many years. Bob Raeburn was also an alpinist of some distinction, addicted to chopping his way up icy gullies and fluted snow-fields with his dear lady wife tagging along on a rope behind him. His name was scrawled all over the registers of the Monte Rosa Hotel in Zermatt and the Nesthorn in the Lotschental, accompanied by comments about bad coffee and bad weather and, now and then, a record of an ascent of a difficult ridge or mention of a ‘dawdle’ along a mule path eight or nine thousand feet above the valley.

  In January, three days before the Raeburns were due, Owen and Giles left for Strathmore. The trip was less arduous than it had once been, for the horse-drawn carriage from Perth to the village had been replaced by a motorised omnibus that took less than an hour, even on the unpaved roads. Although it was bitterly cold in the hills there was no trace of fog and the crystal-clear air and brilliant sunshine seemed to benefit Owen’s lungs. Within a day of arrival, he felt better than he had done in weeks.

  The Raeburns rolled up in due course, complete with two female servants and a mound of luggage that included hanks of brown rope, several pairs of nailed boots, and two long-handled objects like pick-axes. The couple were amiable and only too delighted to have been invited into the heart of the hills in the off season for hospitality. They dined well, chatted to Owen for an hour and then retired early. They were up and gone next morning before Owen had even opened his eyes and he saw them not until a half-hour after dark when, bone weary, they trailed back into Strathmore in search of tea, hot baths and a bed to lie down on for an hour before dinner.

  By the middle of the week Owen felt more like a boarding-house keeper than a country-house host and was bored by the couple’s tales of perpendicular ascents and hair-rising descents. He was also irked by Sir Robert’s prying into Franklin’s private affairs. Owen had been informed what was happening at the yard but he hadn’t asked to see the drawings and had no intention of divulging any information whatsoever about the prototype. If Sir Robert was so desperate for information then Owen reckoned that he would do better to milk one of his sources in Whitehall.

  For Owen it was not an enjoyable week in spite of the fine weather and the beauty of the Perthshire landscapes under snow.

  Each day about noon, he went out with Giles for a walk through the birch trees or up the long slope to the ridge above the moor. He felt old now, even in invigorating weather. His legs seemed quite leaden and he pressed on for the full hour simply because he was reluctant to let Giles see just how debilitated he had become and how badly the chest cold had affected his stamina. His breathing was easier; he could feel sharp, unsaturated air going down into him like a healing draught and he would stride out for ten or fifteen minutes as if he were still in his prime. But his prime was long past and he knew that his disinterest in the work in the yard, in what his sons and grandsons were up to, indicated that he had retreated into that phase when only a woolly tangle of old habits kept one going at all. He had done his bit, done his best. Soon he would rest in silence, that white, unforgiving silence which to an active man seemed more terrible than all the pains of hell.

  In the afternoons, after lunch, he warmed his feet at the log fire, smelled the scent of pine resin and other woody odours that reminded him of his boyhood in Pemberton’s backyard – and slept. He did not dream of Pemberton’s yard or Aydon Road, of the vigorous days of his youth, of steam engines, of boilers so perfectly constructed that they might have been works of art. He did not even dream of Kath, for here in Strathmore, where he had made a promise that he had failed to keep, she seemed pleasantly at hand, demanding nothing of him, not grief or longing or responsibility, not even the effort of memory.

  The cough wakened him from a deep, death-like sleep. He was stretched out in the wooden-armed lounging chair, feet resting on a stool. He wore a huge, knitted cardigan and heavy corduroy trousers and Giles had draped a shawl about his shoulders to cut off the draughts from the half-open door. It was not the chill that wakened him but the cough, the resurrected cough, the violence of which he had almost forgotten in the week among the hills.

  ‘God!’ he exclaimed, wrenching himself forward and pressing his hands to his chest. ‘God! What is this?’

  A fresh spasm wrenched his throat and ribs. He felt as if the fibres along the top of his diaphragm were being torn like old sailcloth. He drove the air down into his lungs and reared back, coughing, coughing, coughing until he felt his lungs release whatever gummy substance had collect
ed in their sacs and vents. He coughed again and, groping for his handkerchief and holding it to his face, coughed once more, more easily this time. Exhausted, he leaned on the chair’s wooden arm and rested, then, unfolding the crumpled handkerchief, he peered into it with vague distaste and saw blood.

  One solitary gout of bright red blood.

  He blinked, closed the handkerchief in his fist and, even as the door opened, flung the cloth on to the back of the logs in the fireplace. He watched it char and begin to smoulder and then, when Giles touched him on the shoulder, started as if from a reverie.

  ‘Are you all right, sir?’ Giles enquired.

  The servant was concerned. Giles was old too now; no, not old but older, his crisp black hair flecked with silver, his sober features wrinkled.

  ‘What? Yes, Giles, I’m fine,’ Owen answered. ‘Bit of a tickle in the throat, that’s all.’ He forced himself to sit back, to appear relaxed. He yawned and rubbed a hand across his mouth. ‘Might have a dram, though, even if it’s on the early side. What do you think?’

  ‘Whisky and soda, sir?’

  ‘Whisky and soda would do very nicely. Pour one for yourself while you’re at it.’

  Giles nodded and went away.

  Owen studied the logs in the fireplace, the blistered remains of the handkerchief. He felt no sense of panic or despair. He looked up at the French doors, at the shadows of the evergreens cleaving the white lawn, the cold, blue-enamelled sky above the trees. No pain, no soreness in his throat or chest, only a slight tenderness just under his gullet. None the less he had been given a sign and burning the evidence would not make it go away. He had hoped that when it came it would come quickly. Apparently, that was not to be. The end promised to be just as hard and lonely as the beginning had been. A long haul to the breakers’ yard, Owen, a long haul in prospect.

  He sighed and hoisted himself to his feet.

  When Giles returned a minute or two later, Owen was standing by the fireplace with one foot on the fender and one elbow on the mantelshelf.

  He lifted the tumbler from the silver tray and sniffed it.

  ‘Feeling better now, Mr Owen, are we?’ Giles said.

  ‘Much better, thanks,’ said Owen and, raising his glass to no one in particular, downed his whisky-soda like a man.

  * * *

  ‘Didn’t expect to see you here,’ Albert said. ‘Kirby’s isn’t one of your usual haunts, is it?’

  ‘I’ve been here a few times,’ Gowry said.

  ‘Forbes brought you, I suppose.’

  ‘That he did.’

  ‘Where is he then? Where is his majesty?’ Bertie said.

  ‘At home in the bosom of his family,’ Gowry said.

  ‘On a Saturday night?’

  ‘Musical evening.’

  ‘Pardon?’ said Bertie.

  ‘They’re all singing bloody songs around the piano.’

  ‘Sounds delightful. Why aren’t you there?’

  Gowry created a small, strangulated sound in his throat, leaned an elbow on the bar and picked up his glass. He was drinking whisky, Albert noticed, with a beer chaser. Unfortunately he, Albert, had just purchased a tot of rum and paid for it himself.

  ‘I’m here,’ Gowry said, ‘because I want a word with you.’

  Albert was struck by doubt. ‘Concerning Sylvie?’

  ‘Concerning Forbes,’ said Gowry. ‘I’ve a message to deliver.’

  ‘Why didn’t you come to the house with it?’

  ‘He told me I might find you here.’

  ‘Did he, now?’ said Albert. ‘What is this mysterious message that you don’t want Sylvie to hear? Is he tiring of her already?’

  ‘He’s got to go away.’

  ‘Away? Where? For how long?’

  ‘Month, maybe more.’ Gowry paused to sip beer. ‘Business. You should know how it is with Forbes by now, Bertie. No matter how fond he may be of your daughter, business will always come first.’

  ‘A month?’ said Albert. ‘Sylvie isn’t going to like it. What about our financial arrangements?’

  ‘I’ll take care of those.’

  ‘You?’

  ‘Well, who else is Forbes going to trust? His missus?’

  ‘He’s cutting us adrift, isn’t he?’

  ‘No, he’s not cutting you adrift, Bertie. If he was cutting you adrift he wouldn’t have sent me here, would he? Money ain’t the problem,’ Gowry said. ‘Sylvie’s the problem. Forbes doubts if you can cope with her.’

  ‘Oh, I can cope. I can cope. I’m her father after all.’

  ‘No, you’re not,’ said Gowry ‘You’re no more her father than I am.’

  ‘Forbes told you, did he?’

  ‘Does her real papa know where she is?’

  ‘He thinks she’s still in London.’

  ‘Hasn’t he tried to find her?’

  ‘He wrote to the Coral Strand once, so I heard.’

  ‘The Coral Strand?’ said Gowry.

  ‘It’s a missionary society with offices in Holborn.’ Albert shrugged. ‘It’s amazing that he and she have never bumped into each other. Or him and me, for that matter. I mean, you think Glasgow’s a small town but you can go about for years without meeting people you know, or would prefer to avoid.’

  ‘Well, you certainly won’t be finding her papa in a place like this.’

  ‘Kirby’s isn’t his style. Since he married into the family I’m sure he’d just rather forget that Sylvie ever existed.’

  ‘A new leaf,’ Gowry said, ‘that sort of thing?’

  ‘Exactly,’ Albert said. ‘Marrying into the family was the best thing he ever did. Sooner or later he’ll come in for his share, or she will.’

  ‘She?’

  ‘Owen’s granddaughter. Cissie.’

  ‘Cissie!’ Gowry grinned. ‘Of course: Cissie.’

  ‘You did know that Tom Calder was Sylvie’s father, didn’t you?’

  ‘I told you, no secrets between brothers,’ Gowry said, and winked. He made a signal to the barmaid and, a moment later, a fresh tot of rum appeared on the counter in front of Albert Hartnell. ‘Now who’s going to tell Sylvie that Forbes won’t be visiting her for some time to come?’

  ‘I suppose I’ll have to,’ Albert said. ‘Unless…’

  ‘You want me to do it, don’t you?’

  ‘Would you?’

  ‘Of course I will,’ said Gowry.

  * * *

  It seemed that Geoffrey had mastered all forty-eight of Bach’s preludes, together with several Beethoven sonatas and dozens of music-hall songs. He played with relaxation that Lindsay could only envy. All passages, from tranquillo to vivace, lay equally easily under his hands.

  He invited Lindsay to play with him but this she could not bring herself to do. She stood idly by, fuming at her timidity, while Matilda Perrino – still unmarried – rubbed hip and elbow with the naval officer and scampered her way through a furious Liszt duet until, laughing and red-cheeked, she was forced to surrender. Matilda’s reward was a consoling hug from Geoffrey and much applause from the twenty or so fellow musicians who had gathered in the parlour to listen. Thereafter, the piano was Geoffrey Paget’s for the rest of the evening.

  Arthur sang, Tom Calder too; it was almost like the old days, except that Martin and Donald were absent, Mercy, pregnant once more, had turned down an invitation, and the room was full of a younger element from the choir; younger, some of them, than Lindsay herself which made her feel that she had grown up rather too quickly.

  Blossom had vanished upstairs with a supper tray for Winn who had elected to sulk in the nursery for the whole of the evening. Forbes was out of his depth among choristers and instrumentalists whom he could not dominate or impress. He had gone off too, the Lord knew where. When supper was announced the choir members made a beeline for the tables in the hall. Geoffrey remained at the piano, playing jolly little tunes with a shanty flavour, playing so lightly that the keys seemed to offer no resistance at all.

  Lindsay
stood by the piano, watching him. He looked up and smiled, raised an eyebrow as if to indicate that he was not embarrassed by his talent. There was no secret to it, no dark discipline. He had, he said, always been keen on music, had taken lessons from an early age and, even now, practised whenever he could.

  ‘I’m rusty, though,’ he said.

  ‘Oh, no,’ said Lindsay. ‘No, you’re not.’

  ‘I think the piano flatters me. It’s a very fine instrument.’

  ‘Come whenever you’re free,’ Lindsay heard herself say. ‘Come any afternoon and use it, practise upon it. I’ll make sure that you are not disturbed.’

  ‘Is that a genuine offer?’

  ‘Absolutely genuine.’

  ‘What will your father say?’

  ‘Papa won’t mind in the slightest.’

  Geoffrey paused. ‘And your husband?’

  ‘Forbes has no say over what goes on in the piano parlour.’ She flushed. ‘I mean, please come whenever you wish, whenever you have time to spare.’

  He continued to play, glancing down at the keyboard for a moment. The tune was sprightly, almost rollicking. She watched the fluid movement of his hands, the left in particular, and felt within her that little niggle of fear again accompanied by a strange sweet narrowing of focus. Then two Brunswick Park sopranos, juggling plates and glasses, appeared giggling in the doorway and silks and velvets filled the corner of Lindsay’s eye. She heard Matilda call out, ‘I have it. I have something for the lieutenant. No need for you to bother,’ and the choirmaster’s spinster daughter came scurrying across the parlour carrying a plate heaped with cooked meats with which to entice the bachelor officer.

  Geoffrey said, quietly, ‘I’m tempted to take you up on it, you know.’

  ‘Please,’ Lindsay said, ‘please do.’

  Then, like the perfect hostess, the perfect wife, she stepped aside to make way for her guest.

  * * *

  Gowry parked the Vauxhall in the lane adjacent to the Mission Hall. Motorised vehicles were still uncommon hereabouts and he feared that he might soon be surrounded by inquisitive urchins keen not merely to gawk but to thieve.