The Piper's Tune (21 page)

‘I mean,' he said, ‘financially.'

‘Ah!'

He returned to the sofa and leaned his forearms on the back of it, giving her his full attention. ‘How much did your trust turn up?'

‘I'm not sure you have a right to ask me that,' Lindsday said.

‘Oh, come on, my love,' Forbes said. ‘If I'm going to take you on then I'm entitled to know how much you're worth.'

‘What did you say?'

‘Sorry.' He smiled sheepishly. ‘That didn't sound right, did it?'

‘Just for a moment you sounded like a real Irish horse-coper.' Lindsay let her pique show. ‘Take me on indeed! What a callous way of putting it.'

He slid an arm about her, cupped her shoulder, nuzzled her neck. His cheek was shaven smooth and she could smell cologne. She wondered when he had taken to wearing cologne.

‘I mean,' Forbes said, ‘if we plan to set a date this year then we have to be practical about it. I want you, Linnet. Can't you tell how much I need you? I really can't wait much longer.' He kissed her neck, letting his lips linger. ‘That's all I meant.'

She felt guilty. The touch of his lips was so tender and loving that she could not help but forgive him. She covered his hand with hers. It was so still and clammy in the drawing-room that the rustle of her skirts sounded like a crackle of thunder. Where was Miss Runciman? Probably in the kitchen personally preparing the neat little sardine sandwiches that Forbes professed to adore. What would Miss Runciman say, Lindsay wondered, if she came into the drawing-room and found them sprawled on the carpet in a passionate embrace?

‘It's too early to consider announcing our engagement,' Lindsay said. ‘I'm no less keen than you to be married but my father does have a point.'

‘What point is that, sweetheart?'

‘You're not twenty-one yet.'

‘What's that got to do with it?'

‘You're not – not established.'

He came swiftly around the sofa, seated himself by her side and took her face between his hands. ‘Look at me, Linnet. Do I seem like a boy to you?'

She shook her head. His hands tightened, fingertips finding and resting on the pulses behind her ears. He said, ‘Do you think a man has to be twenty-one to make a woman happy?'

‘Forbes…'

‘Linnet, I don't want to lose you.'

‘Lose me?'

‘To someone else.'

‘There is no one else.'

He took a deep breath, released it. ‘No,' he said. ‘No, of course there isn't.' He slid his hands from her face and sat back. ‘Anyhow, I thought we were going to be practical.'

‘And talk about money, you mean?'

‘If you like,' Forbes said.

‘Are you asking me how much I'm worth?'

‘Oh, I see. That's what's got you riled, is it? No, Lindsay, that's not what I'm asking, not at all.'

‘What then?'

‘I want to know how much
we'll
be worth when the time comes.'

‘Haven't you asked Martin?'

‘He claims he doesn't know.'

‘Donald then, or Pappy?' Lindsay said. ‘You're fully entitled to see the figures – or your mother is. I'm not sure how trust law works when juveniles are involved.'

‘Juveniles! Jesus, I hate that expression. I'll be twenty-one next year. I'll have finished my diploma course and most of my managerial training. I'll be established. You've seen the figures. You know what I'll be earning. Will it be enough, Linnet, just tell me that? Can we make do?'

‘Don't be ridiculous, Forbes. Of course we can make do. Good Lord, you're carrying on as if we were being condemned to nail-biting poverty.'

‘I don't want to have to depend on anyone.'

‘I applaud that sentiment,' Lindsay said. ‘But it doesn't alter the fact that my father doesn't want us to marry until you're older.'

‘How old? Twenty-five, thirty-five? Forty, fifty? Until my cock withers and drops off?'

‘Forbes!'

‘Well, it's the truth, Linnet. Your daddy doesn't want you to get married at all, especially not to me. He likes having his little girl at home. It makes him feel ageless. And then along comes this hairy Dubliner—'

‘Nonsense! Absolute nonsense!'

‘Are you blushing?'

‘No.'

‘You are, damn it, you're blushing.' He touched her again, brushing her hair with his palm. This time she shivered. ‘Is it that naughty word I used? I notice you know what it means?'

‘Forbes, please. Don't.'

‘No,' he said. ‘You're right as usual. I mustn't taunt myself. We've got to be sensible, practical –
nice.
Nothing else for it.'

‘Twelve hundred pounds,' Lindsay said.

He whistled.

‘Twelve hundred and eighteen pounds and eleven shillings.'

He whistled again.

‘Including accrued interest.'

‘At what rate?' Forbes asked.

‘I've no idea,' Lindsay answered.

‘Say, eleven hundred base over three years. Say, three hundred and sixty per annum. Halve it for one per cent. Multiply by seven. Good God!'

‘It's a great deal of money.'

‘I'll say it is.' He whistled once more, not silently. ‘If you add in the interest, I'll be picking up not far short of five thousand quid on my birthday.'

‘Had you no idea that Franklin's were doing so well?'

‘None. Not really. Not in hard cash.' He permitted himself a grin. ‘Small wonder that Rora Swann considers our Martin a rare old catch.'

‘I don't think the money matters. I think she loves him.'

‘Of course she does,' Forbes said. ‘Same as I love you.'

‘Are you sure?'

‘Well, I can't just be after your money, my love, can I?' He eased himself back in the sofa and put his hands behind his head. ‘Do you know what the arithmetic means, Lindsay?' He did not allow her to answer. ‘It means we don't have to kowtow to anyone. We can do as we damned well please, whenever we please.'

‘Forbes, I really don't think we should get carried—'

With startling agility he leaped forward and snared her about the waist. He was alert and animated, no longer distant. No longer boring. He kissed her mouth firmly, kissed it again.

‘Let's do it, Linnet,' he said.

‘Do – do what?'

‘Between you and me, Lindsay, just between ourselves, let's agree a date.'

‘For what?'

‘Our wedding, of course,' said Forbes.

*   *   *

Tom could not make up his mind if the Hartnells deliberately set out to make him feel small or if it was merely negligence that caused them to offer him a low wooden chair. He didn't think that Florence was the devious type but he was less sure about her husband. Something about Albert rubbed Tom up the wrong way and it would not have surprised him to learn that the chap had sawn the legs off the chair just to increase his awkwardness.

The tenement apartment was furnished with odd bits and pieces of furniture and not much of it at that. It was, however, clean; far too clean, not just spotless but scrubbed within an inch of its life, every plate, spoon and fork, every square inch of worn linoleum buffed by one of the damp bristle brushes that were propped like artillery shells on the draining board over the sink. Even the pan of tripe and onions that bubbled on the stove smelled more antiseptic than appetising.

Tom tucked his heels under the spar of the chair and, bent almost double, tried not to click his chin on his knees. Florence and Albert were seated at the kitchen table. There was nothing on the table, not so much as a crumb.

‘You've brought payment, I assume?' said Florence.

‘I have,' Tom answered.

He fumbled to free an elbow, dipped into his overcoat pocket and produced a signed cheque. He craned forward, chest to thighs, reached up and offered the cheque to the couple. Albert glanced at Florence. Florence nodded. Albert took the cheque and passed it to Florence. Florence studied it with care.

‘I think you'll find it in order,' Tom said.

‘Hmm, you took your time with it,' Florence said.

‘I've been away on business. Working.'

Tom gave the word ‘working' a little extra emphasis. He had a suspicion that work was anathema to Albert Hartnell who, when interrogated, admitted only to being a ‘contractual storeman', whatever that entailed, and would not be drawn into naming his current employers. If, fourteen years ago, Tom had known the Hartnells better he would not have handed his daughter into their care: it was too late to reclaim Sylvie now, though.

Albert said, ‘Africa again?'

‘Portsmouth.'

‘At the naval dockyard?' Albert said.

‘Yes,' Tom said, to save further explanation.

‘Rule Britannia!' Albert said. ‘Britain rules the waves, what!'

‘Albert,' Florence warned in a dreadfully deep voice. ‘Enough out of you.'

Tom squirmed. His joints were locking up. He eased back, tried to stretch, felt the knob of the chair-back dig into the base of his spine like a poking finger.

‘Where's Sylvie?' he said.

‘Out,' said Albert.

‘Resting,' said Florence.

Tripped on a small lie, the Hartnells frowned at each other.

‘Which is it to be?' Tom said. ‘Out or resting?'

‘Ah, is she in then, dear?' Albert said, widening his eyes. ‘Has she returned from being, from being – out?'

‘She's lying down in the room,' said Florence.

‘Of course, of course she is,' Albert said. ‘Having a nice wee nap, I expect. I wouldn't want to disturb her, would you, Tom?'

‘What's wrong with her?' Tom asked. His indifference to Sylvie's welfare was only skin deep, it seemed. He could not entirely erase the guilt and responsibility that were the very essences of fatherhood. ‘Is she ill?'

‘Ill? Oh, no – hah-hah – course she ain't ill,' said Albert.

‘She's – unwell, shall we say,' Florence told him.

‘I'd like to see her,' said Tom.

‘She is asleep,' said Florence.

‘Has she been missing her schooling?'

‘Not a single day,' said Florence. ‘She isn't that unwell.'

‘I see,' said Tom uncomfortably. ‘I trust she hasn't been overdoing it.'

‘What do you mean?' said Albert. ‘Overdoing what?'

‘Church work, Mission work, school,' Tom said. ‘Burning the candle, sort of thing.' He was tempted to add ‘like her mother before her', but he did not consider the remark appropriate. Besides, Florence had been just as shocked as he had been when her sister's moral collapse came to light.

‘She's very dedicated to the Coral Strand,' said Florence.

‘No stopping her,' said Albert.

‘I would like to see her,' said Tom again.

‘She's asleep. I'm certain she's asleep.'

‘I won't waken her,' Tom promised.

‘You might,' said Albert.

Tom tried to rise with dignity but the little chair seemed to be glued to his bottom and rose with him, sticking out like some piece of medieval mummery. He struck at it with his elbow, failed to dislodge it and, fearing for his balance, sat down again.

‘I'll wait,' he said.

‘Wait?'

‘Until she wakens. Or until you waken her for supper.'

‘Not enough in the pot for four,' said Florence.

‘I'm not scrounging,' said Tom. ‘I just want to see that Sylvie's all right.'

‘Why shouldn't she be – all right?' Albert enquired.

‘I don't know,' Tom said. ‘I haven't seen her in months, you know.'

‘She hasn't changed,' Florence said.

‘We thought you'd forgotten about her,' said Albert.

‘Is that what Sylvie thinks too?' said Tom.

‘Oh, no,' said Florence calmly. ‘She's a real pet lamb, our Sylvie. She goes her own way and gets on with her own life.'

‘In the service of others,' said Albert.

‘Yes,' Florence said. ‘In the service of others.'

‘She finishes her schooling soon, doesn't she?' Tom said.

‘In July, yes,' said Florence.

‘What will she do then? College, perhaps?'

‘She's a girl,' said Albert.

‘Some girls do go to college these days,' said Tom. ‘If it's a matter of cash, I don't mind paying for her to learn how to utilise a typewriting machine, or some other skill for that matter.'

‘Park School girls do not become stenographers,' said Florence.

‘Don't they?' said Tom.

‘In any case,' said Albert, ‘she wants to be a missionary.'

‘A medical missionary?' said Tom, surprised.

‘She ain't clever enough for medicine, alas,' said Albert. ‘Knows her own limitations, does our wee sweetheart. No, she has her heart set on working on the home front for the Coral Strand. She'll do the training course, like I did.'

‘You didn't,' Florence reminded him. ‘I did.'

‘Same thing, dearest,' said Albert. ‘However, working for the Coral Strand is what our Sylvie has set her heart on.'

‘You won't stand in her way, will you, Tom?' said Florence.

‘No, probably not,' Tom said. ‘I'd like to find out more about it, though.'

‘More about what?' said Albert.

‘This organisation: the Coral Strand. What precisely is it? What does it do with its funds? Where are its offices and what training will Sylvie receive?'

Florence glanced at her husband who raised a weak eyebrow.

Florence said, ‘We can answer all your questions, Tom.'

‘Quite right and proper, quite natural for you to ask,' said Albert magnanimously. ‘Got the papers handy, dearest?'

‘Not just to hand.' Florence paused. ‘Next time you come, Tom, I'll have them all laid out for your inspection. Meanwhile, to save you hanging on, I'll slip through to the room and see if she's awake yet.' Florence smiled. ‘If she's not you can have a little peep at her, Tom. Would that not be nice?'