The River Flows On (19 page)

‘A penny for your thoughts,’ came the soft and well-spoken voice. He sounded amused.

‘Oh, nothing. Th-thank you for the chocolates,’ she stammered. She seized her bag and clutched it under her arm, poised for flight. ‘They were lovely,’ she said shyly. ‘My sisters and I enjoyed them very much.’

‘You mean there are more at home like you?’

But Kate, her little speech out, had dipped her head and made for the door. Jack got there before her, however, neatly overtaking her, closing the door and standing in front of it with his arms folded across his chest, barring her escape route.

‘Hey! There’s no need to rush away.’ The handsome face was open and friendly. ‘Stay and talk for a while, now that I’ve finally got you to myself.’

She glanced up at him, completely tongue-tied. He laughed softly.

‘You look terrified. I don’t bite, you know. That’s better,’ he said, nodding his head in approval of her reluctant smile. ‘You’re a very pretty girl, you know.’

‘Why, thank you, kind sir,’ murmured Kate, sparing one hand to tuck the strand of hair she could feel on her cheek behind her ear. ‘You’ll be turning my head.’

She had surprised him. She could see that by the subtle change in his expression. There was a re-evaluation of her going on behind that handsome mask. His smile, which had faded, began to creep back, curling the corners of his mouth.

‘Not the little mouse you pretend to be, then?’

‘You’ll never find out.’

Now, where had that answer come from? It sounded like a challenge. Kate lifted her chin with a smile and realized that she was enjoying herself. This man liked her, wanted to get to know her better. It was out of the question of course, but she was woman enough to enjoy the knowledge of her power. Her smile grew broader. Jack Drummond was still smiling in return, but there was a hint of puzzlement in those very blue eyes. Standing up straight, he unfolded his arms.

‘I like you,’ he announced. ‘I think you’re sweet.’

‘In a little mouse-type way?’

‘In a female-type way.’

Now he had knocked her off balance again. He saw it immediately.

‘Sorry,’ he said, ‘I shouldn’t have said that.’ He sounded completely sincere. More than ever Kate was convinced that it was Suzanne who’d been the guilty party on that first day.

‘Would you consider coming out to lunch with me?’ he asked suddenly. ‘Before the class next week? I’ll pick you up from your work in my car. What time do you finish?’

‘No,’ she said firmly, the colour rising in her cheeks. ‘Thank you, but no.’ But, heavens, it was a lovely thought! She’d seen his car, a sporty little Morris Cowley. It might be worth it, just to see Miss Nugent’s face - and Bella Buchanan’s.

Jack Drummond put on a hangdog look, turning his head to one side.

‘Don’t you like me at all, Miss Cameron? Not even a little bit?’

She bit back a smile. ‘We’re not discussing whether or not I like you. We’re discussing the fact that I’m not going to go out with you.’

‘Why not?’ he demanded.

‘Use your loaf,’ Kate said acerbically.

‘Do you really think that sort of thing matters in this day and age? It is the twentieth century, after all.’ He hadn’t insulted her by pretending not to understand what she meant. She liked him for that, but she still wasn’t going to go out with him and she told him so.

He sighed theatrically, turning to one side and raising the back of his hand to his forehead. ‘Oh, you’re so cruel. Cruel, cruel, cruel Miss Cameron!’

‘You ought to be on stage at the Glasgow Empire. And for heaven’s sake stop calling me Miss Cameron. My name’s Kate!’

He dropped the dramatically upraised hand and beamed at her.

‘Well, Kate, if you won’t come out to dinner or lunch with me, will you come to Kelvingrove tomorrow to look at the paintings?’

Kate narrowed her eyes at him. ‘Who else will be there?’

‘Och, you’re so suspicious. Miss Cameron! The rest of the group, of course - part of our artistic education. What’s the matter? Don’t you trust me?’

‘Not as far as I could throw you.’

Jack Drummond threw back his head and laughed. I’m getting better at this, she thought. Maybe there wasn’t much difference in dealing with fresh apprentice draughtsmen and well-off young men like Jack Drummond after all. He laid a hand, lightly and briefly, on her shoulder.

‘But you’ll come, won’t you, Kate - to look at the paintings? Twelve o’clock at the main door of the Art Galleries?’

She was almost a quarter of an hour early, but he was already there, standing at the top of the steps under the portico. The building, solid and stately, stood with its back to the River Kelvin as though it had been there for centuries, an impression confirmed by its ornate towers, which gave it the look of a palace.

It had been completed, in fact, less than thirty years before, the centrepiece of the great exhibition held in Kelvingrove Park in 1901. Glaswegians loved to tell each other that the Art Galleries had been built the wrong way round, as a result of which the architect, unable to cope with such a catastrophe, had committed suicide.

The truth was a bit different. The building had been constructed to face the river and Glasgow University’s magnificent new neo-Gothic home high up on Gilmorehill, on the other side of the Kelvin. It was the right way round, the architect hadn’t killed himself and, in any case, Kate always thought that the mellow red sandstone building looked as nice whichever angle you looked at it from.

Crossing the driveway which led from the main road to the entrance, she raised her hand to return Jack’s wave. She was picking her way carefully. There were some nasty little icy patches underfoot. Glancing up with relief as she reached the salted steps, she saw him running nimbly down the broad flight to greet her.

‘Are the others already inside?’ she asked, looking up and trying to see through the big revolving door. Something about the quality of Jack Drummond’s silence caught her attention.  She turned to look at him. He was wearing a long dark overcoat, a white silk scarf showing under its lapels.

‘The others aren’t coming, are they?’ She could see his breath when he spoke, a white cloud in the crisp January air.

‘Don’t be angry with me. It was the only way I could think of to get you to have lunch with me. We can still go and look at the paintings. Please?’

‘All right,’ she said reluctantly. ‘Let’s look at the paintings.  I’m not so sure about lunch, though.’

‘You’ve got to eat. I’ve brought a picnic and it’ll go to waste if you don’t share it with me.’

‘A picnic?’  She looked pointedly behind her, at the icy patches through which she’d walked. ‘Are you aff yer heid? We’ll catch oor deaths o’ cold.’

Kate’s accent had adapted to the people with whom she was now mixing, but sometimes there was no substitute for the vernacular.

‘Aff my heid?’ It sounded funny in his well-bred tones. ‘Yes I think I am aff my heid. That’s the effect you have on me.’  Their eyes locked. She thought he was going to touch her and she took a half-step backwards. He bit his lip. It was the smallest of acknowledgements of her withdrawal from him. When he spoke again, he sounded hearty, which didn’t fool her for one moment. That tiny movement of hers had upset him. Mr Sophisticated had feelings – deep ones at that.

‘We won’t be cold if we sit in my car. I’ll put a rug over your knees and we’ll be nice and cosy. What do you say?’

‘In your car?’

‘Yes, it’s parked round the back.’ He grinned. ‘Or the front, if you prefer the old story. Come on, Kate, it’ll be fun.’

‘Uh-huh.’ She raised her eyebrows. Now they were back on safer ground. ‘In your car. You must think I came up the Clyde on a water biscuit, Mr Drummond.’

His smile was like the sun coming out. ‘Do you always say exactly what you think?’

She thought about it, head turned to one side. ‘Not with everybody.’ She thought about it a bit more. ‘Not with most people.’

His teeth flashed white. ‘Then I’m honoured.’

‘Uh-huh,’ Kate said again, giving him a look. ‘You are.’

He was a knowledgeable guide, with lots to say about the different paintings in the gallery. He smiled ruefully when she complimented him on it.

‘Well, I don’t work, Kate, so I fill my head with lots of useless information. I’m what you Red Clydesiders would call a capitalist parasite, living off money earned by my father and grandfather.’

‘I wouldn’t say it was useless,’ she replied, giving him a sideways smile as they stood in front of Rembrandt’s Man in Armour. What have you got to say about this one, then?’

He folded his arms and rocked back on his heels. ‘No – I’ve been doing all the talking. What do you think of it?’

‘Me?’

‘Go on,’ he encouraged. ‘You probably know more than you think.’

She wanted to tell him that she thought the man in the paintings was like him – a man in armour, hiding his true feelings. She wanted to tell him how she had seen the sun striking his golden hair yesterday, making a helmet of it, but she was too shy, so instead she studied the painting carefully, self-consciously using the vocabulary she’d heard used at the art appreciation lectures she’d attended with Marjorie.

‘Well, the painting depicts a soldier, in profile and at rest. His eyes are closed, I think... She paused, and looked more closely at the canvas. ‘Or he’s looking at something on the ground. If he is, I think he’s using it as a thinking post – not really seeing it. I get the impression that his thoughts are far away.’

She glanced at Jack, who nodded his fair head in encouragement.

‘Maybe he’s thinking about some battle he’s been in, but I’m not sure about that. He looks very calm, doesn’t he? Like a man at peace with himself, yet you would think soldiers always had unhappy memories-’ She stopped short.

‘Is anything the matter?’

She found herself telling him about her father and his nightmares. Jack listened carefully, his eyes fixed on her face.

‘I suppose I should be grateful that he came back,’ Kate said, her voice very sombre. ‘Lots of people lost their fathers in the war, didn’t they?’

‘I was one of them.’ Jack’s voice was low and suddenly rough.

‘Oh Jack, I’m so sorry!’ Kate laid a swift, impulsive hand on his sleeve. ‘What age were you?’

Smiling wryly at the depth of her sympathy, he covered her hand with his own. Kate couldn’t quite hide a little jump at the touch of his warm fingers, but she left her hand where it was. This was definitely a different Jack Drummond she was seeing today.

‘Thirteen. It was harder for my mother. She’s never really got over it.’

‘But she has you to keep her company, at least.’ So that was why he still lived with his mother. That put a different complexion on things.

‘I can’t bring myself to leave, Kate – and that’s the truth. Can you understand that?’

‘Oh yes, I can, I can!’

‘I knew you would be able to.’ He made a funny little sound, halfway between a sob and a laugh. ‘You won’t tell anybody else what I’ve just told you, will you, Kate? I don’t think I could cope with people thinking I was noble. I have my devil-may-care reputation to protect, you know.’

‘Well, I think it is noble,’ she said, squeezing his arm. ‘And very kind, too. So very kind!’

‘How earnest you sound, little Clydebank girl.’ He was smiling, but there was a frown between his brows as he studied Kate’s upturned face. ‘I’m not kind at all. In fact, if I were you, I’d have nothing to do with me, I really wouldn’t.’