The outing to the jute-barons’ dinner, fraught as it proved to be, whetted Lizzie’s appetite for society. To her surprise she found that she had enjoyed dressing up, fussing about her gown, pinning up her mass of hair and putting Mrs Adams’ long diamond earrings in her ears. What was the use of having all these beautiful things if she never displayed them?
It no longer seemed enough to dress herself in a tailored costume and drive to Green Tree Mill every day. She found herself longing for music and laughter, dancing and gossip. She recalled the pleasure of mingling with happy crowds. ‘I’d like to enjoy myself again,’ she told her mirrored reflection, but the face looked back sadly as if to say: Those days are over.
She leaned towards it and argued with herself: I’m still a young woman and I’m living like a hermit! but the reflection said: Women don’t go into society alone. They have to have an escort. Is it another husband you want?
No, no one could take Sam’s place. I just wish he hadn’t died. I want time to turn back. I want to live again.
In a fury of frustration she lifted a cut-glass bowl off the dressing table and smashed it to the floor.
‘It’s so unfair, it’s so unfair,’ she cried aloud, sweeping brushes, combs and powder boxes off the dressing table.
Maggy tidied up after her as she stormed through her lovely house, leaving chaos in her wake. The maids cowered at her approach; even Charlie and his pet dog Bran kept out of her way.
In Green Tree the inward fury powered her like a drug. She behaved like a dragon and pursued an economy campaign that affected every employee. No longer was time to be set aside during working hours for cleaning the looms.
This necessary operation had to be carried out in the workers’ lunch hours, she decreed.
The foremen protested. ‘But the stoor’ll get into folk’s food. A lot of the women eat at their looms.’
Lizzie was adamant. ‘The looms have to be cleaned or else we’ll have a fire, but we mustn’t waste time doing it. This is how they do it in the big mills. They don’t stop looms and machines during working hours. They clean them when they’re stopped anyway. If the women don’t like it they can find jobs somewhere else.’
In the beginning she had many supporters among the women who worked for her but her increasingly hard attitude alienated quite a few. They were disappointed in her. ‘She’s just as bad as a’ the ithers,’ they said among themselves.
When gossip about her bad temper reached her father, he was concerned, for he had a good idea what ailed his raging daughter.
‘You should go out more. You’ve not been to the theatre since Sam died,’ he told her one day when he called in at her office with little Lexie in tow.
Lizzie leaned her elbows on the desk top and glared at him. ‘I’m not like you, Father. I haven’t time to go jaunting to theatres.’
He shifted in his chair and protested, ‘Come now, Lizzie, that’s not fair. I don’t go out so much these days. Anyway I’m worried about you. You need some amusement in your life.’
‘And how do you suggest I find it? It’s different for men, you know. When they’re widowed, it’s expected that they go out alone. But women can’t. Besides, I don’t want to!’
It was a lie and they both knew it.
‘I’ve been thinking that you used to like playing cards. You enjoyed a hand of whist and you were good at it. Perhaps we could arrange a game once a week.’
She had enjoyed playing cards. She and Sam often used to have a game with her father and Chrissy on winter evenings and her heart ached at the memory of their laughter and enjoyment.
‘Two people can’t play whist on their own,’ she said bitterly reflecting that both their partners were dead.
‘Georgie plays a good game and so does his Rosie,’ said her father, but Lizzie bristled.
‘You’re not seriously suggesting that I entertain Maggy’s sister in my house, are you?’
‘She’s not a bad lassie,’ said David.
‘She’s a slut,’ said Lizzie, remembering Rosie screeching with laughter at the jokes of the salacious old comedian on the last night she’d gone to the theatre with Sam. Any memory of that time was pure pain to her.
‘Och no, that’s a bit strong,’ protested her father. Then he added, ‘We don’t need to play at Tay Lodge. We could play in my place.’
‘I am not playing cards with Rosie Davidson anywhere. I’d enjoy a game but I’d like to play with people of my own class,’ she told him in a stern tone.
Lexie, sitting on the carpet at Lizzie’s feet, looked up with surprise on her freckled face, and her half sister shot her a quelling glance.
‘If I can find people to play with us, will you come?’ persisted her father. She nodded. ‘Yes, I’d like that.’
Softened by his obvious concern, she looked at the old man and his little girl. They were inseparable and heaven alone knew where he took the child every day.
‘How old are you now?’ she asked Lexie.
‘I’m five next month.’
‘Which school is she going to?’ Lizzie asked her father.
‘I’ve not decided yet.’ In fact David was reluctant to lose his youngest child to the schoolroom. Robert and Davie saw little of him because they were intent on their own lives. His brother the antique dealer had died the previous month and though Lizzie had been unaffected by the death because she had never been close to her uncle, she knew her father missed him. Lexie was now his most constant companion.
‘She’ll have to go to school, Father. You should send her to the Harris like my Charlie.’
Charlie, nine years old now, was a pupil at Harris Academy only a short distance from his home on the Perth Road. There he was a source of frustration to his teachers who found him quick and intelligent but totally uninterested in learning anything with the strange exception of Latin at which he excelled.
‘Would you like to go to the Harris?’ Lizzie asked Lexie, who nodded. She hero-worshipped Charlie and thought nothing could be better than going to school with him.
‘Lizzie, I can’t afford the Harris,’ said David shamefacedly.
‘If you lived a quieter life and got rid of that gig that’s sitting outside you’d be able to afford the Harris,’ scolded his eldest daughter, but seeing his downcast face, she relented and added, ‘If Lexie wants to go, I’ll pay the bill. Go round there now and put her name down.’
Lexie jumped up on her skinny legs and held out a hand to her father. ‘Yes, let’s go, David! We can go to the Harris on our way to the artist’s studio,’ she cried in delight. It annoyed Lizzie how the child called her father by his first name. David never reprimanded her for it and Lizzie’s own protests had absolutely no effect, but now she was too interested in the second part of what Lexie said to lecture her on disrespect.
‘Which artist’s studio? You’re not buying pictures, are you?’ She looked accusingly at her father who seemed suddenly very eager to make his escape.
Lexie was dancing around him, tugging at his hand, ‘David’s having his picture painted. It’s awful like him!’ she cried.
Lizzie could hardly believe her ears. ‘You can’t afford the Harris for your bairn and you’re having your portrait painted!’
He soothed her. ‘It’s not what it sounds like, Lizzie. It’s a group portrait. There’s about a dozen of us in it.’
She was implacable. ‘Who’s paying for it?’
‘We’re all paying a share but it’s hardly anything.’
‘Who’s in it with you?’
‘Well, there’s the Keiller brothers and one of the Bruntons and that chap with the big art collection in Broughty Ferry, some of the Cairds and Goldie Johanson and Mr Fleming…’
His list included the names of the most prominent and richest men in Dundee.
‘What are you doing in a picture with all of them?’ asked his sceptical daughter.
He bridled. ‘They’re my friends. They wanted me in the picture.’
It was true. He had named the men with whom he spent his days. Lizzie was slightly mollified by the thought of her father’s exclusive connections, but one problem still bothered her.
‘They must’ve engaged a good artist. They’re not the sort to let any unknown paint them. Who’s doing it?’
‘It’s a fellow called Graham from Edinburgh. An RSA. He’s painted a couple of our lord provosts already. He’s doing all of us in a hunting party at Stobhall. It’s coming up grand.’
Lizzie persisted. ‘And he won’t be cheap. How much is it costing you?’
‘My share is twenty pounds.’
‘How much?’
‘It’s forty pounds.’
‘And how are you going to find that? Young Davie’s got a lock on the Castle Bar money box, they tell me.’
As she looked at him, she wished she’d left well alone. He was growing old and there was no call to taunt him. He’d been a good father to her. She could not remember him ever doing an unkind thing. He’d always been as careless about money as a child. His pleasure was in society and his friends, and she felt ashamed of her scolding.
‘When your portrait’s finished I’ll pay your share, Father. You can have it for a birthday present,’ she told him.
David went ahead and planned the card evening, though he kept it a secret from George and Rosie. In their place he found two more acceptable players, the black-clad widow of his late brother, Lizzie’s Aunt Jemima, and Alex Henderson, a man both highly respectable and rich.
David’s more rackety friends considered Alex Henderson a bit of a jessie, but they could not fault his business acumen. When he was in his twenties he’d taken over his late father’s two grocery shops and within ten years had built an empire of six large provision stores in Dundee. His chief establishment was in the High Street, a magnificent emporium full of cheeses, hams, black-japanned tea boxes, chests of coffee beans, stone jars of pickles, sacks of sugar, bottles of jam, boxes of crystallized fruit, casks of sherry imported direct from Spain and a cellar of crusted port. It catered to the best families in town.
The shop had A. Henderson inscribed above the door in flowing gold script on a dark green background and its two large windows were lettered in gilt with advertisements for Rowntree’s Cocoa and Lindsay & Low’s Chocolates. Orders were delivered to customers by a squad of little message boys, some carrying baskets on their heads and others pushing hand carts. Alex knew all his customers personally and his old-fashioned, almost feminine, manners endeared him to rich old ladies who would never dream of dealing with anyone else.
David decided to invite Alex to be one of their card playing set because he was a bachelor, a few years older than Lizzie, teetotal, highly religious, respectable and rich.
He had no illusions about the sort of man his daughter would pick for herself – and that it would not be an Alex Henderson – but he had seen enough of the world to realize that some of the most suitable marriages are not made in heaven and necessity often brings together strange bedfellows. Lizzie was lonely but it was unlikely that she would ever find another Sam. There was also the danger that her loneliness would in time make her vulnerable to a fortune hunter. The fact that Henderson was rich and a success in his own right made them appear to be a good pairing. Anyway, mused David, it would take a quiet man to live with Lizzie and not resent her twin fixations – Green Tree Mill and Charlie. She’d changed a lot since Sam died.
It was pleasant to play cards again, to concentrate so hard on the little squares of cardboard in her hand that all her daytime concerns disappeared. She glanced under her lashes at the other players; her father’s face was lined and tired in the firelight; her aunt was frowning in fierce concentration and Alex Henderson sat with a beatific expression as if he held every ace and every trump in the pack.
She’d seen him often around town and was even one of his customers at the High Street shop. When she inherited Tay Lodge she inherited Henderson’s as food purveyors but because all her household management was done through the housekeeper, Lizzie herself had never set foot in Alex’s establishment.
He was a mild-mannered fellow with a pleasant, almost boyish face and an unctuous way of speaking which made the most ordinary words seem soothing. Tall and spare, he had grey eyes and black hair speckled with white although he was only in his early forties. He had such an otherworldly air that it was hard to appreciate the acuteness of his business brain.
‘Mine, I think,’ he said, gathering up the four cards on the table and swiftly counting the tricks lined up at his place with a long finger. He’d notched up eight already and the rest of them had nothing. She could see that he enjoyed winning.
Alex was not the sort of man that she admired. She was a woman who responded to masculinity, and his old-maidish ways slightly amused her, but he was well-mannered and made every effort to entertain her at supper after their game. When he invited her to a musical concert which was to be held the following week, she found herself agreeing to go. Even her father looked slightly surprised when he heard this. He had not expected his plan to start working so quickly.
The squiring of Lizzie Kinge by Alex Henderson was suitable on several levels. They were both ambitious business people; they found it easy to talk to each other but their conversation was always about practicalities and business problems, which fascinated them both. She respected Alex’s judgement although he tended to be more cautious than she. It never occurred to them to talk of the secret things that draw lovers together.
Charlie did not like Alex. ‘He’s an old wife. The way he talks gets on my nerves – all that fancy fluting,’ he said after they met for the first time.
‘Don’t be silly. He’s very polite. It’s the way he talks to the ladies in his shop,’ said Lizzie.
‘He’s only good for cutting cheese,’ was Charlie’s retort as he and his huge Airedale terrier Bran went bursting out of the house on some suspicious errand.
In spite of her son’s scorn, Alex suited Lizzie because he never made an ambiguous suggestion to her, never presented himself in the guise of a lover. They were friends and went out together every week to some social occasion or other. Having an escort gave her the opportunity of a life outside the mill and Tay Lodge. Society was open to her and she once again started to indulge her taste in fine clothes.
Among the problems that she discussed with Alex was the waywardness of her son.
‘He doesn’t do anything he’s told. He twists Maggy around his little finger,’ she complained.
Alex’s face showed that there were comments he could make, but he held his tongue. It was not for him to point out to Lizzie that her own treatment of Charlie was excessively indulgent. She wouldn’t have believed him anyway.
‘Perhaps he needs a man’s hand,’ he suggested. He hoped she did not think he was offering himself for the post. Dealing with Charlie would be more than he could contemplate.
‘I thought of that. I’ve asked my half brothers Davie and Robert to take him out with them. Davie’s busy with the Castle Bar but Robert spends time with Charlie. I’m not entirely sure it’s good, though. Robert’s a rogue as well. He was allowed to run wild when he was little.’
She had never cared much for Robert, who she considered loutish, but Charlie seemed to enjoy his company. Perhaps, when she had time, she’d put her mind to finding another mentor for her son.
Sometimes talking about a problem brings it to a head. When she arrived home next evening Maggy was waiting for her in the hall, looking concerned.
‘Your brother’s waiting for you. He’s gey mad,’ she whispered.
‘George’s here? George’s mad?’ she asked, surprised. George had not been in Tay Lodge for more than a year because her father had let slip a hint about Lizzie’s refusal to play cards with Rosie.
‘Not him. It’s Roh-bert,’ said Maggy.
Lizzie swept into her drawing room and found her youngest half brother perched on the edge of the sofa, his red hands hanging between his knees.
He stood up when she entered and made a few grunting sounds which she took to be greetings, but she did not return them. He was obviously bent on some business that would cause her trouble.
‘What’s the matter?’ she asked with unsettling directness. If he’d come to borrow money, she was determined not to give him any.
‘It’s about that laddie of yours.’
Her face hardened. ‘Charlie? What’s he done?’
‘His dog’s just about killed my Hercules.’ Hercules was a bull terrier, Robert’s proudest possession. When it was a puppy it had won innumerable dog-show prizes. Now rumour had it that Hercules was used for dog fighting, a cruel sport that Lizzie hated.
‘That’s not likely. Bran’s not a fighting dog.’
‘That little bugger of a laddie’s been training him. He set his dog on Hercules in the back court of the bar this afternoon and you should see my dog, half torn to ribbons.’
‘And what am I to do about it?’ she asked, facing him out.
‘You want to do something about that laddie. He’s as wild as heather. God knows what’ll happen to him if you don’t control him. It’ll be the Mars for him right enough. You just let him do what he likes.’ Robert’s voice was quavering and he was obviously deeply upset about Hercules. When Robert complained about someone being wild, they must be very unruly indeed, thought Lizzie, and her attitude was softened by his obvious suffering on Hercules’ behalf.
‘I’ll pay the vet’s bill. Here, take this.’ She thrust a hand into her skirt pocket and brought out a few sovereigns. He took them and left, still grumbling.
Charlie was hiding in the back parlour with Maggy. Bran lay under the sofa with his massive head propped on his paws and his golden eyes shining.
Lizzie was raging when she swept in. ‘What’s all this about dog fighting? You know I would never permit that. What did you do to Hercules? Robert’s almost in tears about him.’
Charlie blustered, ‘Och, he’s aye boasting about how fierce that dog of his is. I wanted to show him that Bran’s fiercer.’
‘You’re stupid. You could have got your dog killed. Hercules is a vicious brute.’
‘But he’s a coward. Bran’s brave. I’ve been training him for ages. I pretended that Hercules was attacking me and Bran went in to kill him. He nearly did too.’
Lizzie bent down to the dog. ‘Poor Bran. Was he hurt?’
‘Just a little bit,’ said Charlie proudly, ‘but not as bad as Hercules. My Bran nearly ate him alive.’
‘You’re impossible. I don’t know what I’m going to do with you. Robert’s right when he says you’re out of hand. As punishment you’ll stay in all weekend. You’ve not to set foot over the door for three days – you’ve not to leave the house.’
It was a punishment that she knew would annoy Charlie, who was due to take part in a swimming gala on Saturday night. His pleas and begging fell on deaf ears.
‘You’re to stay in,’ she told him, and turning to Maggy, ordered, ‘He’s not to go out. Not even for a minute.’
He stormed and raged, he kicked the furniture and made such a din clattering up and down the stairs that her hours of relaxation were ruined. When Alex came to call, her son mocked him openly, imitating his precise way of talking and rubbing his hands together like an anxious shopwalker. She was furious and tried to quell him with her hardest stare but Charlie stared right back with the same look in his eye. It was war between them. On Saturday all the doors of the house were locked and the keys brought to her.
‘I hope you know what you’re doing. It’s a bit late to start coming down hard on the Boss now,’ said Maggy.
Lizzie rolled her eyes. ‘The Boss! We should have done this long ago.’
When it was time to leave for the swimming gala he came into the drawing room with a rolled towel beneath his arm and his dog at his heels.
‘I’m off then,’ he said boldly.
‘You’re not,’ she told him, ‘you’re staying here.’ She brandished the key to the front door as she spoke.
His face went red and he blustered, ‘Oh come on, Ma, you don’t mean it.’
‘I do and you know why,’ she said trying to stop herself from shouting.
Charlie almost wept. ‘But I’m team leader. I’ve got to be there.’
If Maggy had not been watching from the door Lizzie might even have yielded, but she hardened her heart.
Seeing he had lost, her son charged out of the room with Bran behind him. The next thing she knew was a terrible smashing of glass. When she ran into the hall the stained-glass panel in the middle of the front door was shattered. Charlie had made Bran jump clean through it. The dog was standing on the outside step, shaking his head but unharmed.
When he saw his mother coming, Charlie tried to climb through the gaping hole, but he cut himself badly. Blood started spouting from a long gash in his leg and he grasped at it with his hands, looking at his mother with a white face. ‘Oh, Ma, I’m sorry,’ he cried.
Screaming, she ran to staunch the bleeding with frantic hands but Maggy brushed her aside and stopped the blood by tying a tourniquet around Charlie’s upper thigh. He was kissed and bandaged, petted and forgiven. His mother was so frightened by what had happened that she could not bring herself to punish him. It did not strike her that Charlie had won again.