The Piper's Tune (43 page)

Forbes was furious because he could not contrive a reason for denying Paget the house without accusing the officer to his face, nor could he challenge Lindsay who, he knew, would turn him aside by pointing out that Geoffrey Paget was a high-ranking naval officer who had the power to allocate contracts and bring profit to the firm in which he and she were partners. Perhaps he would have been less inclined to harsh judgement if he had not been denying himself the pleasure of Sylvie's company. He missed Sylvie in more ways than he would have believed possible. Gowry's reports brought no comfort. Beneath his anger there lay melancholy and it did not take him long to transfer his guilt and place the blame with Lindsay.

‘Did Paget come today, Winn?'

‘Yes, at half past two o'clock.'

‘What did he do?'

‘Played the piano for an hour.'

‘Was Lindsay with him?'

‘Much of the time, Forbes, yes.'

‘And Runciman was there with them?'

‘It was Blossom's turn today.'

‘What did they do afterwards?'

‘Took tea, I think.'

‘Together?'

‘Yes.'

‘Alone?'

‘Blossom would never leave them alone.'

‘When did Paget leave?'

‘About half past four o'clock.'

In course of time Forbes might have lost his temper and bloodied Paget's nose or have capitulated with his conscience and returned to Sylvie, but a piece of unexpected news came down from Harper's Hill and changed everything, not just for Forbes but for everyone.

*   *   *

Lindsay wept into her pillow. Forbes did his best to comfort her. He put an arm about her, rubbed himself against her, caressed her tenderly and poured out the dregs of his boyish charm.

‘Didn't you know that Pappy was ailing?' he asked.

‘Aunt Lilias assured us it was only the remnants of a winter cold.'

‘He stayed up in Strathmore much too long, if you ask me.'

‘I think he wanted to hide his illness from us.'

‘Why would he do that?'

‘So that he could settle all his affairs without interruption.'

‘He didn't look so bad, not last time I saw him,' Forbes said.

‘I called in a week ago,' Lindsay said. ‘He was resting in bed but he came downstairs and joined us for tea. Oh, it's such a shame that he won't live to watch Harry growing up.'

‘That's the way of life, sweetheart,' said Forbes. ‘He's a tough old fellah, though. He might surprise us all yet. I mean, he might pull through.'

‘He's dying, Forbes. Dying. The doctor has told us so.'

‘Doctors! Who believes what doctors tell you?'

‘Pappy's eighty-two years old.'

‘Yes.' Forbes stroked her shoulder. ‘I suppose Hough's been around long enough to recognise a dying man when he sees one.'

She brushed his hand away. Her cheeks were pink and tears glistened on her lashes. She leaned against the bed-head. ‘You're wondering how much we'll get from him, aren't you?'

‘Oh, now, how can you…'

‘You're wondering how the property will be divided.'

‘Pappy's a wealthy man. Linnet. I wouldn't hardly be human if it hadn't crossed my mind. I'm his grandson, remember.'

‘And so is Gowry.'

‘What?'

‘And Winn is surely entitled to a share. And Blossom.
And
all those others back in Ireland that you refuse to discuss.'

‘They mean nothing to Pappy. They're strangers. I doubt if Winn and Blossom have clapped eyes on him more than half a dozen times. And the others, pish on the others.'

Lindsay was silent for a moment then she said, ‘Why do you never touch me, Forbes? Why do you never tell me that you love me?'

‘So that's it?' he said thinly.

‘Is there someone else?'

‘I don't know what you mean.'

‘Do you have another woman, a mistress, that you prefer to me?'

He shifted away from her and leaned against the bolster. ‘Who put that notion into your head? Has some one been slandering me? Who was it? Cissie? Pansy? You really shouldn't listen to idle gossip, Linnet.'

‘Answer my question.'

He tried to make light of it. ‘When, just tell me, would I find time for another woman?'

‘When you go out with Gowry.'

‘So it's Gowry who's been filling your head with this nonsense.'

‘I didn't say that,' Lindsay told him. ‘I asked a question, Forbes, which you haven't answered yet.' She leaned on to her elbow and stared at him. ‘
Is
there another woman? If you tell me there isn't then I will believe you.'

‘There isn't. Jesus, of course there isn't.'

She pursed her lips. ‘Then I believe you.'

‘I haven't been attentive enough, Linnet. There! I admit it. But that's going to change as soon as you're well again.'

‘Forbes, I am
not
ill,' Lindsay said. ‘Since Philip was born you haven't come near me. Do you no longer find me attractive?'

He folded his arms across his chest, fists bunched under his armpits. ‘Is that why you've encouraged Paget to come creeping round? Because he finds you attractive? Is attention all you want from him, Lindsay? It isn't all he wants from you. God, no: that bloody sailorman's after a lot more than attention.'

‘Geoffrey's a friend, that's all.'

‘Huh!' Forbes exclaimed. ‘I've heard that tale before. God, but you do have a damned nerve, Lindsay, accusing me of taking a lover when you're up to something behind my back. I can guess what goes on here in the afternoons.'

‘Nothing goes on.'

‘Piano-playing! Bloody piano-playing! Do you take me for a fool?'

Her eyes were glistening again but not with tears. He had riled her at last. He had more to go on, more, as it were, to work with than she had when it came to accusation. He would have to be careful, though, careful not to push Lindsay too far, not with the old man dangling at death's door. He thanked his lucky stars that he had had the sense to break off with Sylvie when he did and wondered what Gowry had been saying or what snatch of conversation Lindsay had overheard. He didn't doubt Gowry's loyalty, only his discretion. He would have a word with Gowry first thing tomorrow morning. And he would not see Sylvie again, at least not until everything had settled down and he was able to gauge just how much Lindsay and his marriage were worth.

He felt a vague tweak of desire for her but the time was not ripe to soothe and pacify his wife in that way, not unless she asked for it; then, charitably, he would salute and do his duty.

She said, ‘Geoffrey is not my lover, if that's what you're thinking. If Winn or Blossom have told you that he is, or have even suggested that he might be, then they do not know me – or Geoffrey for that matter – very well. I'm
your
wife, Forbes, for better or for worse, though sometimes it's difficult to remember what that means.'

‘Well,' he said, not harshly, ‘we're going to have a lot more on our minds than Geoffrey Paget in the next few weeks.'

‘Pappy, you mean?'

‘Yes, Pappy.' Forbes drew her head down on to his shoulder. ‘Poor old fellah. I wonder how long he will last. I hope he doesn't suffer, that's all.'

He held her, patting her gently, until she began to cry again and then, snuggling against him, eventually fell asleep.

*   *   *

Kay said, ‘I'm sorry to see you like this, Daddy. I'm just glad I got here in time.'

Owen could no longer rouse himself to speak. He had heard that she was on her way from Dublin, but the conversations that took place around his bed were filtered through a mist of the medicines that the doctor had administered to take away his pain.

If he had been less strong, less stubborn, he might have let go, but he had no control now, no choice but to suffer and be silent. His memories occupied him during his waking hours. Memories smoked within his brain like the coal piles on the flanks of Franklin town, after which he had been named. When he sipped a little of the soup that Lilias or Pansy brought him, for instance, he remembered the soup that old Hugh Pemberton had made all those years ago on the sooty black stove in the back room of the iron yard overlooking the canal. How he had loved the taste of that soup, soup filled with beans and lentils and tasting of the ham bone that Hugh made the stock with, stock that, as day succeeded day, became richer and thicker until you could spread it upon your bread like a marmalade. He had told Kath about the soup. She had laughed and had tried to manufacture it for him but something was missing, some ingredient that could not be duplicated: the hunger of his youth, perhaps.

When he thought of Kath it was as if she were a ghost long gone away from him, gone long before his boyhood had even begun. He too was fading now, the struggle too much for him. He welcomed the effects of the sweetish grass-green liquid that Lilias fed him when the cough denied him sleep. He would be asleep soon enough, asleep like the little boy in the song, asleep in his daddy's arms. He wondered if his daddy would cry when he saw him. If, in the brilliant bright light of reawakening, his daddy would be there to greet him, his mammy too. How old would they be? How old would he be? How would he recognise them when he had never known who they were?

He did not care about the future. He longed to cling to his past, not to have to shed his memories. The ships, the children – he would give anything to be able to carry the past on with him, all its mistakes and regrets intact, for surely he would be man enough to stand before the Lord and defend himself and whatever he had achieved. Memories of the manner of that achievement were coming home now, coming back now, one by one in the grass-green hours after the medicine eased his body into a state that Lilias mistook for sleep.

He had summoned Gammon to Strathmore, old Harrington too. The lawyers had done what he had asked them to do, had offered him efficiency not sympathy, for they were not so far from the end themselves. Then they had gone away and he had been left with Giles, the views of the hills, the worsening cough, breathing that was like breathing nails even before he had left Perthshire for the last time and had journeyed home to wait for the end.

‘Is it not better if you sit up, Daddy?' Kay said.

‘He no longer has the strength to sit up,' Lilias said.

‘Dear God! I can't be doing to see him so reduced.'

‘No,' Lilias said, out of his sight. ‘No, it's sad, so sad.'

He wanted to tell them it was not sad at all, not so bad as they, in their prime, imagined it to be. But he was too weary and too stubborn to sleep, too restless in his mind to care about them, to give anything of himself to children to whom he had already given everything.

Kay stooped over him.

‘Do you not know me?' she whispered, her voice rustling like paper.

He tried to nod, but his head was too light.

‘I've come from Ireland to see you.'

He tried again but the thick, soupy substance in his chest choked him. He coughed, weakly now, for there was no blood left to bring up. Lilias appeared, her elongated face; her elongated long fingers held the cotton to his mouth. He let the substance slip from his tongue to his lips, felt her lift it away.

‘Forbes is here too,' Kay said. ‘Do you not want to talk to Forbes?'

They had all come to bid him farewell. Lilias had eked them into his bedroom, though whether they had come in daylight or in the dark he did not know, for daylight and darkness were all the same to him. Even the halo of the candle that Lilias lit when she sat by him did not seem bright enough to let him see all that he wanted to see. They came, concerned and kindly, to usher him out of their lives. He supposed that he enjoyed their tears, their murmured lamentations, all the little songs they sang to him, rocking on the edge of his bed: Martin and Pansy, Johnny and Ross. Cissie weeping, Mercy too: all his children's children gathered in a solemn rank that he could not see the end of.

‘Do you have something to say to Forbes?' Kay whispered.

He had seen Forbes. He had seen Tom. Lindsay with Arthur, his best son, standing by her shoulder. He had seen all the little boys and girls who had been brought to him for the last time but that he could not quite identify by name now, little girls and boys who already existed in a different dimension, who were already so very far away.

Kay touched him urgently. ‘Daddy, speak to me.'

Lilias tugged her back.

‘For heaven's sake, Kay, leave him be. He can't hear you.'

‘He hears me,' Kay said. ‘Don't you, Dadda?'

He had forgiven his rebellious daughters long ago. There had never been much difference between them and he understood better than anyone the nature of their folly. Only Arthur, his best son, remembered the squabbles and could not forgive and forget. He should reply to his daughter, tell Kay something. He tried to raise his hand but lost interest before it left the blanket. He was overcome by a need to sleep. Strange. He felt himself growing strong again, very strong in the light of the day. And yet he needed to sleep. Strange. Strange.

‘Look, Daddy, Forbes is here. Forbes, speak to…'

Her voice faded.

Owen heard nothing but the beat of his heart, then that, too, stopped.

*   *   *

Lindsay was less stricken than she had imagined she would be. Somehow she had always known that Pappy would not be with them for ever. With Nanny she had had, as it were, practice in facing up to the fact of death: perhaps that was the reason why, when the telephone rang in the hallway of the house in Brunswick Crescent and Forbes told her it was all over, she felt nothing but relief. If Pappy had died eight years ago, or ten, then everything that he had once been would have remained and she would have been stunned by his absence and lost without him. But that man had gone long since, had commenced the process of change and separation on the morning when he had divided the partnership among them and had gracefully bowed out.