CHAPTER THIRTEEN

The Winter Rains

The fixing of a wedding date, the purchase of an engagement ring, the family celebration, oddly sober and unmusical, that followed the official announcement, together with Forbes’s obsession with ‘getting the house just right’ left Lindsay rather out in the cold. She saw little of Forbes in the autumn months and even when they were together they were seldom alone. Matrimonial rituals, it appeared, were not designed to bring a happy couple closer together but to drive them, at least temporarily, apart.

The house rang with the thud of mallets, the rasp of saws and a shrill and constant whistling without which, it seemed, carpenters and joiners could not properly function. Eleanor Runciman retreated to the basement kitchen. Even there she could not avoid the interminable racket and knew that weeks of disturbance lay ahead, for Forbes had told her that woodworkers would be followed by plumbers, plumbers by plasterers and plasterers by painters and decorators, all culled from Franklin’s employment roster.

Donald had been less than delighted by this appropriation of part of the labour force. He had pointed out that Martin had paid out of his own pocket for work done on Rosemarket House, where Aurora and he would set up home, and had suggested that Forbes should do the same. An argument ensued between the brothers, and Arthur – who actually agreed with Donald but felt obliged to defend his soon-to-be son-in-law – was drawn into a quarrel that only Pappy’s intervention prevented from becoming a feud. He, Pappy, footed the bill for labour and materials and, to be even-handed, offered to do the same for Tom and Cissie in their newly acquired apartment in Sandyford Avenue, an offer that Tom politely but firmly refused.

Domestic matters did not distract the Franklins from turning profit on their current contracts, in meeting delivery dates and conducting trials to the satisfaction of their several clients, including Mr Kimura, who turned out to be an even worse sailor than Martin and had to be ferried off the Hashitaka before she had covered a sea mile out into the Gareloch. There was another launching almost identical to the first except that the little Kimuras did not put in an appearance and the weather was at its worst, a day of blinding grey rain driven by a strong southwesterly. Lunch afterwards was a damp affair and that evening, for no obvious reason, Lindsay had a fit of panic about her wedding and wept into Eleanor Runciman’s broad, boned bosom.

No panic for Martin and Aurora Swann. They were married in style in St James’s Church in Aurora’s home parish and everyone who was anyone in the shipping trades received an invitation to the service and to the reception in the Congleton Halls thereafter. The Swanns, it seemed, were intent on setting a benchmark for grandeur and expense that the Franklins would be hard pushed to top. Tom and Cissie were quite prepared to settle for a quiet wedding in St Anne’s but Lilias wouldn’t hear of it and immediately swung herself on to a new heading, trading dressmakers for caterers and nagging Donald almost nightly to allow her to expand the guest list and increase the budget.

The Calders’ recently purchased apartment in Sandyford Avenue was swiftly taking shape. Electrical wiring was installed for lighting, the old lead gas pipes were replaced and Tom personally tackled the erection of shelves in kitchen, bathroom and the servants’ pantry, and made a jolly good job of it too.

In Harper’s Hill, with Martin and Mercy gone and Cissie soon to follow, the mansion had already begun to seem empty and Lilias had taken to dogging her three remaining children about the place as if to make sure that they too had not flown the coop or, like Cissie, were not about to be spirited away by some stranger and leave her to stare vacantly at Donald down the length of the dining-table night after night.

In contrast Arthur and his housekeeper would have been only too pleased to have an opportunity to stare vacantly at each other over the soup bowls. The house in Brunswick Crescent had been turned into a Bedlam and even after the workmen had left for the day there would be Forbes McCulloch to contend with, Forbes stalking about with renovation plans tucked under his arm, a pencil behind his ear, Forbes pointing to this, kicking at that, complaining loud and long about shoddy workmanship or that some minor detail had been overlooked in the fulfilment of his grand design.

‘Have you been up there recently, Eleanor?’

‘Yes, Mr Arthur, I have.’

‘How many rooms do you make it?’

‘Six, I believe.’

‘Hmm, that’s what I counted, too. Six, plus the downstairs drawing-room. Dear God, I didn’t realise we had so much unused space in the house.’

‘Knocking down head walls and inserting steel beams does appear to be having the desired effect. Did you not approve the plans, sir?’

‘Plans, what plans? The little beggar keeps amending them every time I turn my back. I don’t know what he thinks he’s building; a damned transatlantic liner has less bunk space, for heaven’s sake.’

‘Have you had a word with him?’ Eleanor asked.

‘A word with him? How can I have a word with him when I can’t be sure what he’s up to from one day to the next or, for that matter, even find him half the time when he’s crawling about among the sawdust and shavings under what used to be my roof. I pale to think what it will be like when the painters arrive.’

‘Please,’ Eleanor said, ‘don’t.’

‘Well,’ Arthur sighed, ‘it can only get worse before it gets better.’

‘Will it get better, do you think?’ Eleanor asked.

‘You know,’ her master answered, ‘I’m beginning to have my doubts.’

*   *   *

Lindsay caught him as he strode down the hall with his overcoat slung over his shoulder and his hat in his hand. ‘Forbes, where are you going?’

‘I have work to do at home.’

At least he had the decency to pause and, hand upon the door handle, let her catch up with him. ‘Work? What sort of work?’ Lindsay said. ‘Haven’t you done enough for one day?’

‘It’s business,’ Forbes said. ‘The Admiralty tender.’

‘What Admiralty tender?’

‘We’re on for a new type of torpedo-boat and Donald is very concerned that we get our figures right first time.’

‘First I’ve heard of it.’

‘Donald’s playing it close to the chest.’

‘So close it hasn’t even come up in management meetings?’

‘It will, it will, quite soon I expect.’

Lindsay moved closer but did not touch him. He did not take his hand from the door handle. ‘I thought you were staying for supper?’

‘I can’t, honey. Truly.’ He smiled indulgently. ‘You see how it is?’

‘No, I don’t, Forbes. All I see is the back of you these days.’

‘Not for much longer, I promise.’

‘Why are you doing this?’

‘Doing what, Linnet?’

‘Ignoring me.’

‘Oh, now, I’m not ignoring you. Everything I do is for the both of us.’

‘Does that include borrowing money from me?’

‘I thought I’d explained that,’ Forbes said, not quite crossly. ‘It’s only until I get my hands on what I’m owed. Won’t be long now, Linnet. By the way, you haven’t told your father, have you?’

‘Of course not. He’d be furious if he thought I was lending you money.’

‘He’s just too old-fashioned to understand how things are.’

‘I’m not sure I understand how things are.’

‘Sharing. What’s yours is mine, and vice versa,’ Forbes said. ‘If you really don’t trust me to pay you back…’

‘It isn’t that.’

‘What is it?’

‘I just – I don’t know,’ Lindsay said. ‘I just never see you these days, to be alone with you, that’s all.’

‘You’ll be alone with me soon enough, honey, all snug in our nice new suite of rooms, just you and me and no one else. I’m doing it for you, Lindsay. I mean, I don’t care if I live in a garret. But that isn’t what I want for you. I only want the best for you.’ He released the door handle and adjusted the roll of papers under his arm. He remained encumbered with coat and hat, though, and his caress was awkward. ‘Look, I’m sorry. Here, give me a kiss and a cuddle, will you, please?’

Obediently she put an arm about him and kissed him on the mouth. She could sense his urgency but his lips were warm and he let the kiss linger just long enough to appease her. She was the one who drew away.

‘There now,’ he said, ‘wasn’t that nice?’

‘Yes,’ Lindsay agreed, ‘it was.’

‘Now,’ he tugged open the door, ‘I really must toddle.’

‘Forbes,’ Lindsay said, ‘why do we need six rooms?’

When he grinned she remembered why she had fallen in love with him.

‘For the little ’uns,’ he told her.

‘Little ’uns?’

‘Our children, silly,’ Forbes said, then, cramming his hat on to his head, hurried down the steps into Brunswick Crescent and, in a moment, was gone.

*   *   *

St Mungo’s Mansions were far from the river, almost on the city boundary, in fact. East of the tall, sharp-cornered building with its chip-carved frontage was a sprawl of less salubrious tenements occupied by workers from the locomotive repair shops. To the west, however, beyond the thin, metallic strip of the old sugar canal, lay a vista of rolling green hills and distant mountains that Forbes hoped would give the girl pleasure and bring a breezy touch of colour to her pale cheeks.

He had selected the property with care and forethought. The building was less than ten years old, well tended and solidly constructed. Its rear entrance was discreetly screened by trees so that he could come and go as he pleased without being too obvious about it. There were churches, mission halls and public houses within walking distance and at least three music-halls no more than a halfpenny tram ride away. The opening of the new electrical tram-line had clinched it: he could travel from the city centre in a matter of twenty minutes and, with one change of car, be home in Brunswick Park in half an hour. The rent was considerably less than he would have paid for a third-floor West End apartment and, best of all, the place came fully furnished, right down to bed linen.

He opened the door with a latchkey and ushered Sylvie inside.

The hallway was papered in heavy plum-coloured wallpaper. A potted plant in an enamel bowl occupied a blank corner. There was a huge coat rack with a mirror in the centre, a grandfather clock and other bits and pieces of bric-à-brac, none tawdry. The kitchen to the rear was bright and airy, parlour and dining-room even more so. There were three bedrooms with brass bedsteads, horsehair mattresses, clean sheets, quilts and spreads.

Forbes put his hand upon her waist and showed her round. He could sense her apprehension like a kind of vibration but reckoned that he had done well by her and that once she got used to it she would be happy here. He steered her into the parlour and let her test the armchairs and the sofa. She did not bounce upon them, did not squeak or squeal. Her sweet little face was puckered with concentration as if she were trying on a new dress or a new pair of shoes.

At length, Forbes said, ‘Do you like it, sweetheart?’

‘Has Dada seen it yet?’

‘He came last night, I believe. Didn’t he tell you?’

‘I haven’t seen him since yesterday morning. I was asleep before he arrived home last night. I think he had been drinking again. He misses Mama so much, you know.’

‘A blow for him, yes, a terrible blow,’ Forbes said. ‘It’ll do him no harm to get out of your old house into somewhere new, somewhere like this.’

‘Will you stay with me?’

‘What?’ said Forbes. ‘Now?’

‘Stay here with me?’

‘Sure and I will,’ Forbes said. ‘Whenever I can.’

‘Will you be here when I come to stay?’

‘When you move in, you mean?’ Forbes said. ‘I will do my very, very best to be here to welcome you. If I’m not, though, I’ll come just as soon as I can.’

‘Dada says you’re going to look after us.’

Forbes waved his hand, shaping a circle in the air. ‘Is this not looking after you, sweetheart?’

‘Care for me.’

‘Care for you? God, Sylvie, don’t you know I love you?’

‘And I love you.’

He experienced a tremor of annoyance at the wan, matter-of-fact manner in which she accepted what was being given her. Had Bertie not told her what this place was costing every month? Did she not realise that a girl in her position could hardly expect to do better, that there were thousands of young women who would have been overjoyed to be brought to live in a brand-new, well-furnished apartment, thousands of young women who would have been delighted to have him for a lover on any sort of terms? Irritation brought a surge of sexual longing in its wake.

All he had to do was look at her, not listen, just look at the colour of her eyes, the curve of her lips, her satin skin. How many other girls could claim that they were desired with such unreasonable intensity? On impulse he kissed her and inserted his tongue into her mouth. He fumbled at his trousers, released himself, let her see how urgently he needed her attentions. He was not obliged to pay homage to her refined sensibilities; unlike Cissie, unlike Lindsay, she carried no weight of prudence or, he had discovered, of modesty.

She would do anything he wished her to do.

Provided he loved her.

Holding her against him, rocking against her, he said, ‘Now look, I have to know, dearest. Is this it? Is this the place for you? If it’s not…’

‘What? You’ll find another?’ Sylvie said. ‘Ah-hah, ah-hah.’ She wagged a finger in his face. ‘You will never find another like me, though, will you?’

‘That’s true.’

‘Will you, Forbes?’

‘No, damn it. Never,’ he told her. ‘Do you like it here?’

‘Ye-eees.’

‘Will you be happy?’

‘Will I make you happy?’

‘Sylvie, please answer me. Will you be happy here?’

‘Perfectly so,’ she said, then, still dressed in coat and bonnet and wearing her grey suede gloves, she knelt before him like a slave.

*   *   *

Albert opened the door. Bleary-eyed, haggard and unshaven, he was clad in a nightshirt, bedsocks and a greasy old overcoat in lieu of a dressing-gown. He looked, Tom thought, absolutely terrible. He managed a smile, though, and signalled Tom to follow him into the kitchen.

To Tom’s dismay he found that the room had been stripped of every stick of furniture. God knows, it had been bleak enough in Florence’s day but now, with even the linoleum peeled away, it was nothing but rough floorboards and bare walls. Albert ate soup not from a bowl at the table – there was no table – but directly from a blackened pot upon the side of the stove. A crust of bread and a bottle of milk stout made up the elements of his supper.

‘Can’t offer you much, old son,’ Albert said. ‘Share my stout with you if you like.’

‘So it’s true,’ Tom said. ‘She has gone.’

‘Ah, yes. You got the letter. She said she would write to you before she departed but I wasn’t certain she would do it. You know what she’s like, a wee darlin’ most of the time but with a mind of her own when it suits her.’

‘I received the letter this morning,’ Tom said. ‘I came as soon as I could. I didn’t expect her to be gone already.’

‘Got the offer. Took the chance.’

‘Abandoned you?’

‘Oh, no, no. I urged her, I pressed her to go.’

‘When did she leave?’

‘Yesterday forenoon. I took her to the railway station myself.’ Albert rested one foot on the guard rail of the stove and dipped a spoon into the broth pot. ‘Shed a tear too, I may tell you, to see her going off like that, all on her own, clutching her little bag. Florence…’ He swallowed, wiped his moustache with a knuckle. ‘Florence – ah, well, you know how it is, Tom, you know how it is to lose a wife when you least expect it.’

Tom looked around for somewhere to sit and finally propped himself against the sink. He glanced round, frowning; even Florence’s scrubbing brushes were gone.

‘What happened to everything?’ he said.

‘Sold.’

‘All of it?’

‘Except for some of the clothes. I kept some of the clothes.’

‘Are things that desperate, Albert?’

‘Not desperate, no. I just wanted rid of the stuff. I wasn’t going to give it away, was I? Florence would have turned in her grave, bless her, if I’d just given it away. Sold it down Paddy’s market. Price’ – he shrugged – ‘reasonable.’

‘What about Sylvie’s wardrobe?’

‘Sold it too. Furniture fetches.’

‘I mean her dresses, her shoes,’ Tom said.

‘She took them with her.’

‘All of them?’

‘I got some to post off later.’

‘Why didn’t you tell me what was happening?’ Tom said. ‘If you needed money for her railway train fare or her lodging then I—’

‘You’ve done enough,’ Albert said. ‘More than enough.’ He paused. ‘Besides, you’ll be needing all your hard-earned once you’ve got a wife to support and a house to look after.’

He ate soup noisily, his back to Tom.

Tom said, ‘I suppose Sylvie spotted the engagement announcement in the Glasgow Herald?’

‘I expect that’s it,’ Albert said.

Tom said, ‘Is that why she accepted the post with the Coral Strand?’

‘Uh?’

‘Was she offended because I intend to marry again?’

‘She didn’t say much about that,’ Albert said. ‘She misses her mama. She wants to do right by her mama. When the position in London was offered, she jumped at it. She always had it in mind to work for the Mission, you know. I was never all that for it, but her mama was. Her mama would have done anything for the Coral Strand. Now, God rest her, she has given up her daughter to God’s cause.’

‘So my engagement to Miss Franklin…’

‘She isn’t bitter, Sylvie. She’d have wished you well. She did, in fact. She did wish you well. Last thing she said to me before she left: “Tell Papa I wish him well.” Last words to me at the railway station.’

‘Who offered her the position?’

‘Mr Chappell.’

‘May I see the letter?’ Tom said.

Albert pushed the soup pot aside. ‘What letter?’

‘From Mr Chappell.’

‘I think Sylvie took it with her. Had an address on it, yes.’

‘What address?’

‘An address in London.’

‘Albert, are you lying to me?’

‘No, Tom, I ain’t lying.’ He wiped his moustache again and, with a little grunt of resignation, dug his hands into his overcoat pockets. ‘She don’t want you to have it.’

‘I don’t believe you.’

‘It’s true, I swear,’ Albert said. ‘I told her, I said, “Your papa’s going to want to know all about what’s happening to you, how it’s working out for you in London.” And she said, “No, he has done enough for me. He has his own life to lead now and a new wife to look out for. I will not have him burdened. I am going to do God’s work and God will look after me.”’

‘Sylvie said that?’

‘Her exact words. Didn’t she hint as much in her letter?’

‘No.’

‘She ain’t yours no longer, Tom. She ain’t mine either. She’s gone off to do the work she was trained for, was born for, you might say.’

‘Will she be sent to the foreign field?’

‘I don’t know, do I?’ Albert said. ‘After her training, perhaps.’

‘Where is she staying in London?’

‘In the Coral Strand’s hostel in Holborn.’

‘Does she pay to lodge there?’

‘No, not while she’s under training.’

Tom nodded. He was filled with guilt: guilt kept doubt at bay. He wanted desperately to see his daughter again, to talk with her, to be assured that it was not his marriage that had driven her away, had precipitated her into a career that seemed unsuited to such a delicate wee thing. He had been to Africa, if not the Islands, and he knew how bad the tropics could be, how dangerous, how unhealthy, and suspected that his daughter’s illusions would soon be shattered and her heart broken by the work.

He was gripped by terrible emptiness, a fear that had no base or bottom but that seemed to go down and down inside him, like a pit shaft. He felt bleak, as bleak as Albert looked. He crossed his arms over his chest, closed his fists on his shoulders and drew in a shuddering breath.

Albert said, ‘It’s what she wants, Tom. It’s what’ll make her happy.’

‘And you, how will you manage without her?’

‘I’ll make out somehow.’

‘This Mr Chappell, didn’t he offer you a position in London?’

‘He did not,’ Albert said. ‘I expect I might go there, though, to London. Might find something to keep body and soul together. Work for the Mission on a voluntary basis just like I did here. Be near to Sylvie, case she needs me.’

‘You’re not – can’t you stay here?’

Albert tugged his hands from the overcoat pockets. Thrust out by his massive belly, the nightshirt protruded before him. His shins, Tom noticed, were as hairy as his forearms.

‘How can I?’ Albert declared. ‘How can I stay here when all there are is memories, everywhere, memories? I’ve lost them both, Tom, and there’s nothing left for it but to start out somewhere new. Somewhere cheap.’

‘Don’t you have work, a job?’

‘You know I don’t.’

‘Albert, are you broke?’

‘I’m not asking for nothing. You don’t owe me a penny, Tom Calder. You done well by our lass and for that Florence and me were eternally grateful. But it was my pleasure, my privilege I mean, to share what I had with Sylvie. Now it’s over and all I have left – well, you know how it is? You done all right. You stuck with your career and you’ve earned your reward. Marry your young lady, I say, and be happy. I’ve had my high days, Tom, my days in the sun. Don’t you fret about me. I’ll be all right, right as bloomin’ rain, old Albert.’

‘If it’s work, perhaps I can find you some…’

‘No!’ Albert jerked his head. ‘No, that would never do. You’ve got your own life to lead and you don’t want no rusty anchor holding you down.’

‘When do you have to leave here?’

‘Tomorrow.’

Tom nodded. He slipped a hand into his vest pocket. He had taken the notes from the reserve that he kept in a cash-box in a locked drawer in his room at the Queensview. He had thought that he would find Sylvie still here, had, in all honesty, expected to find her with her hand out. But she had taken her own direction, had selected her own destiny. Nothing he could do about it. No more could he give her. Perhaps in a week or two he might write to Mr Chappell at the Coral Strand’s London headquarters and send a donation in Sylvie’s name.

Meanwhile he brought the three ten pound banknotes from his pocket, hesitated, then, extending his hand, offered them to Albert.

‘I can’t leave you like this,’ Tom said. ‘Let me help.’

‘No, Tom. No. I still got my pride.’

‘Please take it. For my sake.’

‘I – I can’t.’

‘For Sylvie’s sake then.’

Albert started down at the floorboards.

Tom said, ‘Sylvie wouldn’t want to see you stranded.’

He sighed, a little roar. ‘You’re right, of course. Sylvie would want me to have it. She would be charitable. When I write to her I’ll tell her what you’ve done, how kind you’ve been.’

‘When will you write to her?’

‘When I’m settled.’

‘Will you also let me know where you are, Albert?’

‘If that’s your wish.’

‘It is.’

He came forward, wrapped an arm about Tom and hugged him briefly. ‘You’re a good man, Tom Calder,’ Albert muttered. ‘A damned good man. God knows, you done the best you could. I wish you a marriage as happy as my own.’

They shook hands.

‘Albert.’

‘Uh?’

‘When you’re in touch, tell Sylvie I’m here if ever she needs me.’

‘I will, Tom,’ Albert Hartnell said. ‘Rest assured, I will.’

*   *   *

He let himself in with the copy of McCulloch’s latchkey that he’d had made in a cobbler’s shop on the Maryhill Road late yesterday evening. He entered the hall and, groping, found the electrical light switch, then he called out, ‘It’s only me, dearest. It’s only Dada. Where are you?’

‘In here.’

He followed her voice into the largest of the three bedrooms and found her propped up in bed. She was clad in a fancy nightdress with puffy sleeves and did not bother to cover herself when he entered. She had taken the ribbons from her hair and, with the rays of an electrical lamp around her, seemed to be burnished in light gold leaf. Through the fabric of the gown he could make out the protrusions of her breasts and he thought how lucky a man McCulloch was to have this treasure all to himself.

She was reading, not a novel but a textbook, a big blue clothbound tome with a Roman gentleman in a toga gilt-stamped on the front. Her eyes were not grey tonight but dark and slaty and she looked, Albert thought, weary and more in need of sleep than education.

He went to the bed and seated himself upon it.

She looked up from the book. ‘Did Papa come?’

‘He did.’

‘Did he receive my letter?’

‘Indeed, he did.’

‘Did he swallow the story?’

‘Yes, swallowed it in one gulp.’

‘How much?’ Sylvie said.

‘Twenty quid. Under the circumstances I didn’t feel it wise to push.’

She placed a forefinger in the book to mark her place and held out her hand. ‘Give it here, please.’

‘I thought I would put it into the bank first thing tomorrow.’

‘Here.’

He laid the notes, still folded, across her palm and watched her fingers close on them. She obviously knew that he had diddled her and he waited for a reprimand, an argument. She seemed satisfied with the sum her papa had given her, though, the parting gift that would separate them once and for all.

‘Did Forbes…’ Albert began.

‘Yes. He came. He brought me.’

Albert risked brushing a lock of hair from her brow.

‘Goodnight, Dada,’ Sylvie said pointedly.

‘Goodnight, dear,’ Albert said, and kissed her cheek.

He rose reluctantly and took himself to the door. It was a fine apartment but still strange and he was still lost in it. His bedroom, at one remove from Sylvie’s, was small but comfortable. It had a single brass bedstead, a high-boy, a dressing-table and a washstand. It did not have Florence in it, though, and at this lonely hour of the night he missed his wife more than he cared to admit, not only for her company but for the fact that she, and she alone, had kept Sylvie from overwhelming him.

He paused in the doorway on the edge of the vast hall with its tick-tocking clock and fleshy pot plant, its gigantic hat-stand and oval mirror. He looked at his foster-daughter, Tom Calder’s child, more beautiful now than pretty, her pert little chin raised, her slate grey eyes fixed grudgingly upon him.

‘What is it, Albert?’ Sylvie enquired. ‘What do you want now?’

‘Have you said your prayers yet?’

‘Not yet.’

‘When you do…’

‘What?’

‘Put in a word for me,’ said Albert.

*   *   *

It seemed to Cissie that the Great Exhibition had gone on for ever, that when it closed not just the summer of 1901 but her youth would close with it, vanishing into memory like the bands and fireworks, the water-splash and gondolas, switched off like the sweeping beam of the Schuckert searchlight that flashed over every corner of the site and even penetrated the velvet draperies of the mansions on Park Circus and the corner of Harper’s Hill.

Since August the ’Groveries had been illuminated after dusk but now the rains had arrived, the winter rains, and the lights had a bleary shimmer that indicated an imminent return to melancholy reality for the city and its citizens.

Closing-night looting was anticipated. The police would be out in force to check the stampede of souvenir hunters. Tom and Cissie had decided that they would forgo the last-night concert and tuck themselves away from the festivities. To make up for it, however, Tom had invited her to dine in the Royal Bungalow four days before the gates were finally locked.

It was already cold and Cissie wore furs, lisle stockings and Russian boots to walk down from the Hill into the park. In the elegant cloakroom of the Bungalow she changed into the dress and shoes that she had carried with her in a waterproof bag and joined Tom at a table by the window. Rain poured from the restaurant’s slanted eaves and the wind blew stridently across the river, making the boats dip on their mooring ropes and whipping the water about the weir. Wild weather was not without its excitement, however, and when they had finished eating and had drunk a bottle of wine between them, they went out for a last tour of the glistening piazzas and leafless walkways lit by swaying lanterns and the broad, ethereal beam of the Schuckert.

Cissie was snug enough inside her furs and Mica hood but Tom, carrying her shoe bag over his shoulder like a knapsack, was soon soaked. He was not dismayed by the discomfort, though, or too cold to enjoy their last parade before the Great Exhibition was diligently packed away. He kissed Cissie under the boughs of the chestnut trees and, because there were few folk around, kissed her again in the centre of the main piazza, his legs spread and braced like a mountaineer’s against the swirling wind, his lips wet against her wet cheeks, both so wet and so exhilarated that they laughed and, with arms linked, set off for the gate that would lead them home.

As they strode along arm in arm, Tom said, ‘My daughter has gone to London, by the way.’

‘Has she?’ said Cissie brightly.

‘To train as a Mission worker.’

‘Really! That will suit her very well.’

‘Yes,’ Tom said. ‘I do believe it will.’

‘Did you talk to her before she left?’

‘Unfortunately, no.’

‘She will write to you, will she not?’

‘I expect so,’ Tom said.

‘But she will not be at our wedding?’

‘No.’

‘Tom?’

‘Hmm?’

‘Tom, I can’t say I’m sorry, not actually sorry.’

‘Why?’ he said, then, hugging her arm, added, ‘No, I know why.’

‘Do you?’ Cissie said.

‘I think you just want me for yourself.’

She laughed and lifted her face and let him kiss her on the nose almost without breaking stride. ‘What a conceited pig you are, Tom Calder.’

‘It’s the truth, though, isn’t it?’

‘Of course it is,’ said Cissie. ‘But I’m not telling you that.’

They walked on, Cissie and he, past the concert hall and the bandstand, the Russian village, their heads down, battling together into the rain.

He remembered how it had been in the not-so-old days when Sylvie too had loved him without question; then he thought of her as she had been that Sunday by the fountain before he had sent the postcard from Portsmouth, that afternoon when he had seen Sylvie for what she was, a stranger.

In five weeks’ time he would be married to Cissie Franklin and as secure as a man could ever hope to be, any man who was loved as he was, that is. Cissie would never know that he had almost fallen in love with her cousin Lindsay, that he regretted the putting away of that love, the wistful evocation of what might have been and never would be now. He would not hurt her, could never, ever hurt her. He would pay for her love with loyalty and devotion, would dedicate himself to ensuring that she never found out how it had been with him once, long ago, or that he had chosen her only because she had chosen him.

‘Tom?’

‘What is it, dear?’

‘Look.’

He turned and watched fireworks pouring upwards into the cloud, rockets bursting and a spray of sparks showering down upon the heights of Gilmorehill, showering down and winking out, extinguished prematurely by the rain.

‘Why are they setting them off them tonight, Tom,’ Cissie asked, ‘when there’s nobody here to see them? It seems such a waste.’

‘It’s a demonstration,’ Tom said, ‘a sort of rehearsal, I suppose.’

‘For what?’

‘The big show,’ Tom answered and, suddenly cold, drew her close and hurried her away towards the exit gate.