The Piper's Tune (42 page)

‘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.

All, however, was quiet.

In spite of his padded leather topcoat, quilted motoring cap and elbow-length gauntlets, he was cold. Freezing air did not affect his patience or his sense of purpose. He had spied on Sylvie before. Had spent several dismal hours on Sunday forenoons loitering by the church to see who talked to her or who accompanied her back to the door of the Mansions. No one ever did. Sylvie did not linger on the pavement outside the church but hopped away like a solitary little bunnikins. Same thing at the Mission Hall: no would-be beau pursued her to press his suit. As far as Gowry could make out, Forbes's fears were groundless.

She emerged on an exuberant wave of song, hesitated only long enough to tie a scarf over her bonnet and punch her little fists into her muff; then she was off, heading north-west along Stevenson Street.

Gowry promptly tugged the ignition rod and cranked the handle. He heard the familiar groan of gases in the valve regulator and prayed that the beast would start first time. Sylvie had already passed out of sight. He cranked again, heard the engine connect and leaped into the driver's seat. He released the brake, guided the Vauxhall slowly out of the lane into Stevenson Street and soon caught up with Sylvie who was skipping along blithe as a lark.

She glanced round only when the Vauxhall came abreast of her.

‘Oh,' she said. ‘I thought it was Forbes.'

‘It isn't Forbes. It's me instead. Get in.'

She clambered on to the running board and alighted beside him. He had kept the engine ticking over and, as soon as Sylvie was secure, eased the motor-car over the broken cobbles.

‘Is Forbes not coming then?' Sylvie said.

‘Nope,' Gowry said. ‘Forbes won't be coming for some time.'

‘Has he deserted me?'

‘He has to go off to work elsewhere.'

‘Where?'

Gowry thought quickly. ‘Portsmouth.'

‘Is
she
going with him?'

‘Nope.'

‘I could go with him. I could go to Portsmouth. Wouldn't he like that?'

Gowry opened his mouth, changed his mind: said, ‘He's appointed me to look after you while he's away.'

‘Will I ever see Forbes again?' Sylvie said.

‘Certainly you will. He'll be back before you know it.'

‘My dada isn't at home.'

‘I know. He's down town, at Kirby's.'

‘That's where I first met Forbes,' Sylvie said. ‘I might surprise him. I might make a trip down to Portsmouth and surprise him.'

‘It costs a lot of money for a railway fare to Portsmouth.'

‘You would give me the money.'

‘Would I now?' Gowry said. ‘Don't be too sure.'

‘I like this motor-car. I've been out into the country in it.'

‘Sylvie…'

‘Drive faster.'

‘I can't.'

‘Why not?'

‘Because we're there.'

She made no protest when he accompanied her through the tiny garden and into the close. They went upstairs together. Snowball, Mrs O'Connor's cat, was seated on the stairs. It paid them not the slightest attention. Sylvie unlocked the front door of the apartment. Gowry followed her into the darkened hallway. He expected her to switch on the electric light, but she did not.

She said, ‘I do hope he hasn't gone away for good.'

‘Don't be so daft, Sylvie,' Gowry said.

‘Then I would only have you to look after me.'

‘Would that be so bad?'

‘Bad enough,' she said.

He did not move. He could hear the rustle of clothes, the topple of her bonnet on to the rug. She was very close to him. She seemed to be moving around him, as if he were a totem pole.

She said, ‘Did you go to Kirby's especially to see Albert?'

‘Yes, I did.'

‘About the money?'

‘You're all paid up. Forbes took care of it.'

‘Forbes takes care of everything.'

‘Nearly everything,' Gowry said.

He started when she caught his hand; he couldn't help himself. He was confident, but not that confident. He would have preferred to see what she was up to, what sort of a dance she supposed she was leading him. He was not in love with her, would never be in love with her. She would never be able to torment him the way she had done his brother. He couldn't blame Forbes for wanting breathing space.

She took his hand in both of hers and stripped off the leather gauntlet.

‘What's this you're doing, Sylvie?' Gowry said.

‘Making you feel at home.'

He gave her the other hand. She tugged off that glove too.

She took his hand and led it to her neck, slid it down to her chest. She had removed her coat and unbuttoned her blouse and the top of her bodice, not as far as her breasts but enough to let him touch the angular arrangement of bones above them. She pushed herself against him and, on tiptoe, kissed him on the cheek and then on the lips. He reached for her, but she danced away. ‘Are you going to stay and tuck me in?' she asked, in a tiny, unprotected voice. ‘Are you going to do that for me too, Gowry-Wowry?'

‘Sure and I am,' he said.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Just Between Friends

If Forbes had been willing to listen she might have been able to make him believe that her friendship with Geoffrey Paget was just that, a friendship and not an affair. This, though, would have been a lie, or at best a half-truth, for she had been falling in love with Geoffrey almost since the year began. Once momentum had been achieved there was no stopping it and Geoffrey and she were drawn even closer by a need to pretend that they were in fact
not
falling in love. The tedious paraphernalia of discretion, all the rules and regulations that they imposed upon themselves were designed to prevent friends and enemies alike from leaping to what was after all the right conclusion or, to be hair-splittingly accurate, not
quite
the right conclusion.

By tacit agreement they contrived never to be alone except in public places and during Geoffrey's frequent afternoon visits to Brunswick Cresent they were always chaperoned by Miss Runciman or glowering Blossom McCulloch. Blossom was too insensitive to appreciate quite what was taking place under her very nose but Eleanor Runciman could with ease read the signs and signals. Unrequited love,
unrecognised
love, was not the same as an affair of the heart, of course, but it was close enough for the housekeeper to fall in with the fancy that Lindsay and the naval officer were behaving quite properly and that anyone who suggested otherwise knew nothing about loyalty.

Eleanor guarded Lindsay's reputation. Eleanor also contrived to allow the Lieutenant Commander and Mrs McCulloch two or three unsupervised minutes just after he arrived and again just before he left, for in Eleanor's book there was nothing in the rules to prevent a gentleman kissing a lady's hand or bussing her cheek or even placing a friendly arm about her shoulder, provided the limb did not dwell there too long. Eleanor assumed, correctly as it happened, that in those stolen moments Lindsay and Geoffrey would also kiss lip to lip, that he would say something complimentary about her and she would say something flattering about him and, because they were trapped in virtuous necessity, they would be deluded into believing that conducting an affair of the heart was so easy that they need have no fear of its outcome.