The Piper's Tune (45 page)

Meanwhile, the disposal of Pappy's assets continued.

Harper's Hill went to Donald. Cash sums equal to the value of the property went to Arthur and Kay. Pensions were left for Owen's cook and housekeeper. The trusty Giles received a lump sum sufficient to allow him to retire in comfort. The lease on the Perthshire retreat had been terminated by payment of a year's rent and personal items brought down from Strathmore were now stored in Harper's Hill. Objects of sentimental worth, in addition to books, paintings and private papers, would be divided between the three surviving children, each of whom might have what he or she wished; any disagreements to be settled by Mr Harrington.

By her side, Lindsay felt her husband stiffen.

‘As to the partnership, the shareholding of a sixth of the sixty-fourth part has been transferred by previous deed to Mr Thomas Calder, my grand son-in-law, whereby interest, right and property passes…'

‘Good God!' Forbes murmured. ‘Calder got it.'

‘… subject to registration, and on the same and several conditions which I held before the execution hereof, I, the said testator, do hereby assign…'

Lindsay glanced across the library. Tom sat motionless, apparently unmoved by the announcement that he had just become a partner in Franklin & Sons and would from now on share not only in its decisions but in its profits.

‘… in which case,' Mr Harrington concluded, ‘there being no questions or objections relating to this reading of the will of the deceased Owen Franklin, I declare the reading duly concluded.' He closed the leather folder on his documents and, with a little sigh, set his small moist hand upon it like a seal.

‘Bastard!' Forbes hissed beneath his breath. ‘Bastard, bastard, bastard!' Then, throwing all pretence of courtesy to the winds, shot out of his chair and hurriedly left the room.

*   *   *

‘This,' Gowry said, ‘is not a good idea. For a start she isn't expecting you.'

‘What does that have to do with any bloody thing?' Forbes shouted. ‘Are you trying to warn me that she might be in bed with somebody else?'

‘No, no, no, no,' said Gowry placatingly. ‘I just mean that you've ignored her for months and now you're turning up a fair bit less than sober.'

‘I'm bloody sober enough,' Forbes said. ‘Sober enough to do what I feel like doing. Jesus! I've paid for the bloody privilege, haven't I?'

‘That you have, that you have.'

‘Wait here.'

‘I think,' Gowry said, ‘I should be coming up with you.'

‘What the devil for?'

‘Sylvie's used to seeing me these days. Let me go first. Let me tell her you're back from – where was it? – from Portsmouth.'

‘Sod off, Gowry. Bloody sod off.'

‘I'm not trying to stop you. I just want to go with you.'

‘Why?'

‘To make sure you don't break your neck on the stairs.'

‘Hah!' Forbes said sarcastically. ‘Always got my best interests at heart, haven't you? Sometimes I think I should have left you to rot in bloody Malahide.'

‘Sometimes I think you should have,' said Gowry, but his brother had already gone charging through the iron gate and across the strip of lawn that led to the back door of the Mansions. Peeling off his gauntlets and unbuttoning his coat, Gowry followed him anxiously.

They had been drinking – at least Forbes had – for the best part of the afternoon. What Gowry couldn't grasp, though, was just what Forbes had expected to gain from his grandfather's will or why the fact that Tom Calder had been admitted to a full partnership in Franklin's had riled him beyond reason. It seemed to Gowry just the sort of thing that the old buffer
would
do, given that he had always been generous and loyal to those who were loyal to him. My God, Gowry thought, how ambition could gnaw away at you and spoil you to the point of destruction. What was it that Reverend Staveacre, vicar of the church at Malahide, kept saying?
Ambition may be as innocent as hunger: equally it may become the last infirmity of noble minds.
Well, there had never been anything noble about the McCullochs and any polish Forbes had acquired while growing up surely wasn't much more than skin deep.

There had been no sign of Albert at Kirby's and Gowry rather hoped that there would be nobody at home in the Mansions. If Sylvie did happen to be out he knew that she would only have toddled down to a prayer meeting or, if there was nothing doing at the Mission, might have skipped into the Salvation Army Hall in Canal Street in the hope of finding some comfort and joy. On the other hand, Gowry thought, she was probably sitting up in the parlour with her scrapbooks around her, her nightdress hanging off her bones, like some wicked little fairground fortune-teller who took on clients on the side.

Baby, baby, he thought, no, no, don't try to tell him tonight.

He tugged at his brother's sleeve.

‘Hold on,' he said. ‘At least have the decency to knock.'

Forbes shook off the restraining hand. ‘Have you got one?'

‘Got what?'

‘A key?'

‘I have, as a matter of fact. The one you gave me.'

‘Use it then, for Christ's sake.'

Gowry opened the outer door and, blocking Forbes's path, called out in a loud voice, ‘Sylvie, Sylvie. Guess who's here?' Silence: all the doors off the hall were closed and, for a moment, it seemed that the apartment was deserted. Gowry stuck out a hand, switched on the electrical light.

‘Sylvie?'
Forbes roared.
‘Where are you?'

‘She'll be in the drawing-room,' Gowry said, ‘if she's anywhere.'

Forbes pushed his brother aside, flew across the hall and flung open the door to the parlour. Gowry followed. To his dismay Sylvie was seated at the oval table, paste-pot, scissors and scraps before her, a pile of newspapers on the carpet by the side of her chair. A coal fire blazed in the hearth and the tall lamp in the corner of the room was lit. The scene, Gowry thought, was almost cosy; or would have been if Sylvie had been a child with a father and mother comfortably ensconsed in armchairs nearby. When he was alone with her he was oblivious to her pathos but now, with Forbes present, he felt nothing but pity for the abandoned girl.

She looked up and said, ‘Ah, Forbes! There you are,' as if he had never been further from her than the room next door.

Her composure brought Forbes up short. He reeled towards her and braced himself against the sofa. ‘Where's Albert?'

‘Out. Did you have a nice trip?'

‘Trip?'

‘I thought you might have written.' Sylvie snipped around a portrait head of some bearded duke or other, trimmed off the shreds, and put the scrap into a shallow wicker basket before her on the table. ‘Would you care for some tea?'

‘No, I wouldn't care for some tea,' Forbes said.

‘Gowry?'

‘No, thanks all the same,' Gowry said.

He loitered nervously by the door. She
was
wearing a nightdress, one of the long flowing ones with a floral pattern and lace at the throat and cuffs. She wore a robe over it, however, and a tiny little muslin cap over her hair and looked nothing like a gypsy fortune-teller; more, he thought, like someone convalescing from an illness.

Forbes said, ‘Aren't you surprised to see me?'

‘I knew you would come back.'

‘Did you now?' Forbes emerged from behind the sofa, rounded the table, thrust a hand under her armpit and yanked her to her feet. He planted a kiss on her mouth while she hung limply, caught between chair and the table. ‘Is that what you thought I'd come back for, sweetheart?'

When he released her she seated herself demurely on the chair again, folding the robe and nightdress under her thin thighs. She reached for the paste brush. Forbes gripped her arm, turned her around and kissed her again, even more violently than before.

Gowry looked down at the carpet.

Then he heard her say, ‘I knew you would come when Gowry told you.'

‘Told me?' Forbes said. ‘Told me what?'

‘About the baby?'

Gowry's head jerked up and he heard himself say, in perfect unison with his brother, ‘What baby?'

‘My baby?'

‘Your baby?' Forbes laughed uncertainly. ‘You haven't got a baby.'

‘I will have soon.'

‘You're –
what?
'

‘It is nesting inside me right now.'

Gowry had his hands spread, shoulders raised, even before Forbes spun round to confront him.

‘Did you know about this?' Forbes shouted. ‘Did you know about this and didn't have the guts to tell me?'

‘I had no idea – I don't know what – first I've heard…'

‘Now, now, Gowry-Wowry.' Sylvie tilted her head and flashed him such a coy and castigating look that Gowry felt the hair on the nape of his neck rise.

‘Now, now, now, you know I told you ages ago.'

‘She's – she never – Forbes, I swear, I didn't…'

‘I feel sure it will be a girl, a little girl just like me.'

Forbes slapped his palms flat upon the tabletop and, leaning forward like an orator, addressed her soberly. ‘I see. Yes, I see. And when is this baby due, Sylvie, tell me that? When will it be born?'

‘She,' Sylvie said. She sucked her lip, considering. ‘August. In August.'

‘In August,' Forbes said quietly. ‘And it's going to be a little girl, just like the Duchess of Athlone's, am I right?'

‘It won't be the duchess's baby, it will be ours, yours and mine.'

‘August,' Forbes said, even more quietly. He glanced round at Gowry whose hands remained spread in a gesture of helpless ignorance. ‘Did the doctor tell you it would be born in August, Sylvie?'

‘I do not like doctors.'

‘Bertie, your dada, does he know about the baby yet?' Forbes asked.

Forbes was almost in control of himself now, Gowry realised, the drink purged from his system. He, himself, he was trembling inside. He would have been trembling outside too if he had not had the sense to disguise his fear. He leaned against the wall, pretending to be nothing more than an observer. He could see the crooked shape of his brother's back, though, and Sylvie's face, half hidden by his brother's shoulder, her expression so guileless that he almost began to wonder if she were telling the truth.

‘Dada will be at our wedding,' Sylvie said. ‘I want Dada to give me away.'

‘So you
haven't
told Bertie and you
haven't
visited a doctor,' Forbes said. ‘In other words, you're behaving like the stupid little bitch you've always been. Do you really believe I'm going to leave my wife and children and marry you just because you've got yourself knocked up, because you
say
you've got yourself knocked up?'

‘Forbes…' Gowry began.

‘Shut your mouth,' Forbes told him. ‘Do you, Sylvie? Do you think for one minute I'm going to take your bloody word for it?'

‘She's inside me. Here. Already here.'

‘You liar!'
Forbes shouted.
‘You sodding little liar!'
Stepping back, he addressed Gowry. ‘Did you know about this?'

‘Not me,' said Gowry.

Forbes returned to Sylvie. ‘So it's in there, is it? You're what – four, five months gone. All right. Show me. Go on, show me.'

She did not understand. She glanced at Gowry. He shrugged.

Forbes said, ‘It's got to be showing by now, honey, so let's see it.'

‘For God's sake, Forbes,' Gowry protested.

‘Shut up,' Forbes said. ‘I know what I'm doing. Go ahead, take it off, Sylvie, or lift it up. Let's see your wonderful big belly.'

Willingly, far too willingly, she slid from the chair and took a few paces into the centre of the room. She seemed, Gowry thought, remarkably confident, her smile complacent. She took off the robe and tossed it behind her. He watched it swirl in the light from the lamp and fall softly to the patterned carpet. There should have been music, he thought, something Egyptian or Turkish-sounding to lend her performance weight. She pressed her knees together, caught the hem of her nightgown and jerkily lifted it. She looked so thin, so white at that moment that Gowry wondered what Forbes had ever seen in her.

She lifted the garment until it covered her face. Her body was frail, starved and, Gowry thought, somehow unfinished. Slowly and deliberately she pirouetted and, from under the nightgown, said, ‘Can you see, my darling? Can you see it now?' The swelling was graceful, the prettiest part of her. It sloped from below her breasts, curved down in a soft line and dipped into the shadow of her thighs. He had seen her naked before but never like this, never so exposed, yet pride in her condition removed every vestige of sexuality from the display. She lowered the nightgown, let it waft about her shoulders. She patted the swelling with both hands and giggled. ‘See. I told you so, Forbes.'

‘I see
nothing.
' Forbes danced with rage, with the truth of the evidence before his eyes. ‘I see nothing. I see
fat,
that's all. You're
fat,
Sylvie. Fat like a bloody pig. Like a
sow. Fat!
Fat! FAT!'

Gowry had sympathy for his brother. He wanted to tell Sylvie to cover herself, to sit down and discuss the matter like a normal human being, except that she was no more normal than Forbes was, or he was himself. He felt ugly with the shame of what he saw and yet he remained afraid that she would tell on him, confess to Forbes what they – what he and she – had done.

He watched two fat tears course down Sylvie's cheeks.

‘Marry you?' Forbes ranted. ‘Marry a bitch like you? I wouldn't be marrying you if you were the last bloody woman on the face of the earth, not if you were carrying ten babies in that fat belly of yours. My wife, my wife is my
wife,
Sylvie. She's worth a thousand of you. Jesus! Do you think I want a trollop like you sitting at
my
supper table, sharing
my
bed, meeting
my
mother, talking to
my
friends.'