CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Weapons of War

Soon after nine o’clock, she dressed Harry and, leading him by the hand, left the house. She walked to the rank at the corner of Sheddon Street where two motorised taxi-cabs stood aloof from a line of hansoms. She chose one of the old-fashioned ‘clip-clops’ and lifted her son into it. He perched on the slippery seat, humming to himself as he gazed at the tall tenements, the tram-cars, all the bustle of the January morning streets. He looked, Lindsay thought proudly, quite a little gentleman in his new navy blue topcoat and pantaloons and a cap with velvet earflaps.

There had been quite a rumpus with Winn before they had left. Lindsay had almost lost her temper with the nursemaid who had protested that it was far too cold for a small boy to be taken out of doors, no matter how well wrapped up he was.

‘He will not be out of doors for long,’ Lindsay had said.

‘Where are you going, then?’ Winn had asked.

‘I don’t think that is any of your business.’

‘What if Forbes telephones and wants to know where you are?’

‘Tell him we have gone shopping.’

‘You will be tiring Harry out, you know.’

‘I don’t think so, Winn.’

‘What about the poor baby?’

‘Poor baby?’

‘He will be hungry.’

‘I will be back long before Philip needs fed again,’ Lindsay said. ‘But if I am much after twelve o’clock you may give him a bottle.’

Still protesting, Winn had trailed her down to the hallway and had demanded, ‘Where are you going? Where are you taking him?’ as if she, Lindsay, were planning an abduction.

Stubbornly, Lindsay had refused to answer.

It was not until the hansom trundled into Aydon Road that Harry turned to her and said, ‘Are we going to see Papa?’

‘Yes, Harry, we are going to visit our shipyard.’

‘To see Papa?’

‘Perhaps.’

‘And Grandee’s boats?’

‘Oh, yes, and Grandee’s boats.’

‘Hurrah!’ the little boy yelled, throwing out his arms. ‘Hurrah!’ as if he had been awaiting this moment from the day of his birth.

*   *   *

‘Why, if it isn’t Miss Frank— I mean, Mrs McCulloch,’ Sergeant Corbett said. ‘It’s a pleasure to see you again. And who might this be, ma’am?’ He stooped, hands on knees, and inspected Harry critically. ‘Is this the first-born?’

‘It is, Sergeant. His name is Harry.’

‘Welcome to Franklin’s, young man,’ Sergeant Corbett said. ‘I hope we’ll be seeing a lot of you in future.’

Harry stared up at the broad leather belt and mutton-chop whiskers and enquired, ‘Are you a soldier?’

‘I used to be a soldier, aye.’

‘When I’m big I’m going to be a soldier,’ Harry said.

‘A fine soldier you’ll make, I’m sure,’ said Sergeant Corbett, then to Lindsay, ‘There’s no management meeting today, ma’am.’

‘I know, Sergeant.’

‘I think Mr McCulloch is out this mornin’.’

‘And my father?’

‘He’s upstairs. Will I ring for him to come down?’

‘I’ll go up. We’ll both go up, if we may.’

‘Is this the laddie’s first visit?’

‘It is.’

‘Then he’ll be wanting to see the boats.’

‘Boats,’ Harry said. ‘I want to see the boats.’

‘First,’ Lindsay said, ‘we’ll go and find Grandee.’

‘Is Grandee on a boat?’

‘I don’t think so.’ Lindsay took her son by the hand and directed him towards the main staircase. ‘Perhaps, if he has time, Uncle Thomas might take you down to see the boats.’

‘Is Uncle Thomas on a boat then?’

‘Mr Calder,’ the sergeant said, ‘is in the mould loft with a party.’

‘What sort of party?’ Lindsay asked.

‘A party from the Admiralty,’ Sergeant Corbett said.

*   *   *

The long wooden-walled corridor on the second floor of the block was situated directly above the boardroom and the offices that opened from it were occupied entirely by Franklins and their kin. At one time there had been space for all departments on the upper floors but over the years Owen’s sons and grandsons had claimed priority, all except Tom Calder who was quite content with his cubicle at the end of the drawing-office. Forbes, however, had complained bitterly about having to share space with Johnny and Ross and had insisted on being given an office of his own next door to Martin’s.

The clack of typewriting machines flooded up from the clerks’ room, the brutal thud of a power punch, the shriek of a saw and the clang of riveters belting on hammers sifted in even through windows sealed against the frost that held Clydeside in its grip. Lindsay heard men whistling and, like mammoths trumpeting, the hoots of bum-boats and tugs and the ineffable churning of propellers from the miasmic waters that stretched into the frozen haze.

Harry too heard these sounds, his first experience of the rhythms of a song that would sit close to his heart: no Kerry Dance, no piper’s tune, no sentimental ditty recalling days that were dead and gone or that had never been, but an overture to the future. Eyes wide and ears pricked, Harry accompanied it, making up his own little song as he went along.

Arthur was delighted to see them. Surprised too. Somehow it had not occurred to him that his grandson was of an age to be brought to the yard. He swept the boy into his arms, carried him to the window and stood him on the narrow ledge over the steam pipes.

‘Boats!’ Harry said. ‘Boats, Grandee! I see the boats.’

Her father’s room was cluttered. He shared the old Founder’s Office with Donald now. Racks of plans in brown-cloth folders and tall teak filing cabinets backed the desk. Donald was out on the road with Martin. Ross and Johnny too were out of the office, and of Forbes there was no sign behind the pebble-glass door that bore his name.

Lindsay watched her son and father fondly. Her father’s hands were on Harry’s waist, Harry’s palms pressed against the window, his cap askew. As they surveyed the slips and rails and jibs that lay before them in the dead, dunning January cold, the bond between the generations had never seemed stronger.

‘Wha’s ’at, Grandee?’

‘That’s a destroyer, son, for chasing torpedo-boats.’

‘Big-gun boats?’

‘Yes, guns, but we haven’t put the guns on yet. Do you see the men on their knees? They are fitting the deck, the place where the sailors will stand.’

‘Wha’s ’at?’

‘Oh, that,’ Arthur Franklin said. ‘That’s a boiler, for boiling the water to make the steam.’

‘For the tea?’

‘No, it’s too big for tea. Steam, to drive the engines.’

‘Wha’s ’at?’

‘A crane. If we wait a wee bit we’ll see it turning.’

‘Wha’s it doing?’

‘Lifting steel plates up to the second deck.’

‘Where the sailors stand.’

‘Absolutely.’

‘Wha’s that noise, Grandee?’

‘The saw in the wood-frame shop. A circular saw, for cutting wood.’

‘For the fire?’

‘Not quite, son,’ said Arthur. ‘Would you like to go down and watch the saw cutting timber?’

‘Yes.’

‘Would you like to see the boats?’

‘YES.’

Lindsay said, ‘If you’re too busy, Papa, perhaps Tom could spare a few minutes.’

‘To give my grandson his first tour of Franklin’s? No, no,’ Arthur said. ‘I’m not handing that privilege over to Tom Calder, no matter how busy I am.’

‘Where is Forbes, by the way?’

‘Gone off to Beardmore’s, I believe, to discuss special castings.’

‘In the motor-car, with Gowry?’

‘Naturally,’ said Arthur.

*   *   *

Mr Albert Hartnell and his daughter had been resident in St Mungo’s Mansions for so long that the motor-car and the gentleman caller who got out of it had become an accepted part of the scene. It would have been naïve of Albert to pretend that his neighbours did not know what racket he was in or what the young man was up to when he vanished into the close at the rear of the building. Besides, Mr Hartnell was by no means the only person in the Mansions who had secrets worth keeping. Albert knew more about other folks’ business than they did about his which was, he reckoned, as good a safeguard as any against inquisitiveness and disapproval.

Even Mrs O’Connor who lived across the landing with her cat Snowball and her crotchety maid Evelyn had a secret not so far removed from the secret that Sylvie lived with. Mrs O’Connor’s revenue, Albert had discovered, came from interest in shares left her by three grateful gentlemen who had wives and children and posthumous reputations to protect even although they were personally long past caring. In fact, if the self-appointed widow had been ten or a dozen years younger, on the sunny side of sixty, say, Albert would not have been averse to marrying her to secure himself a comfortable old age.

He was such a worrier, was Albert. He worried when things were going badly and he worried when, as now, things were going well. He worried about the past and he worried about the future. He worried most of all that Sylvie would do something to offend Forbes McCulloch and bring the entire rocky edifice tumbling down about his ears. He was always very careful to bow to Forbes’s wishes and exit the apartment speedily whenever the young Lothario put in an appearance.

As for Sylvie, he was never less than sugar-sweet to Sylvie who, as she’d grown older, had become sharper in some respects, more fey in others. What really stirred Albert’s anxiety was her belief that it was only a matter of time before Forbes McCulloch would desert his wife and children and come to live with her on a permanent basis. Gently, tenderly, he had tried to explain ‘reality’ to Sylvie, to make her appreciate that what she had was all she was ever going to get and that she was fortunate that Forbes chose to share even a small a part of his life with her. Sylvie would have none of it, simply closed her ears to anything that ran counter to the fantasy that she was more than just a mistress who might at any time become a liability.

At least Albert had Gowry for company; honest, amiable, garrulous, down-to-earth Gowry, who was all that Irishmen were reputed to be and who, in the dreary hours of late evening or in the morning, stood him a pint or two while Forbes was upstairs with Sylvie taking, or delivering, lessons in love. Many a peaceful hour Albert spent with the chauffeur in the Old Barge Inn before Gowry hooked out his pocket watch and murmured, ‘Time, Albert, time to be rousting out his majesty and be on our way,’ for Gowry, it seemed, was not so much his brother’s conscience as his clock.

It was from Gowry that Albert learned what may or may not have been the truth about the McCulloch family; not a family united or, as he’d been led to believe, a family swimming in beer money like the Guinnesses or the Goodisons. They did not even live in Dublin but in a sprawling cottage attached to a tiny brewery in the sea-coast village of Malahide, about nine miles north of the famous city. Here McCulloch’s Black Irish Stout was produced in limited quantities and the annual turnover was just enough to keep things ticking over. Apparently Donald Franklin had been the only one from this side of the water ever to visit the place, and Donald had somehow been persuaded to accept the lie that old Daniel McCulloch was a magnate in the industry and not an indolent old reprobate whose only interest in life was buying, breaking and backing horses and dabbling in Home Rule politics.

Such half-truths and exaggerations Albert swallowed whole. Gowry was so full of brogue and blarney, so utterly un-insistent about anything that everything he said seemed plausible. If he had informed you that the moon was blue or the Pope an Orangeman then you would have been more than inclined to believe him and would certainly not have been boorish enough to question the source of his information.

‘But, Forbes’ – Albert sought reassurance – ‘I mean, your brother has done well for himself. He’s financially secure, is he not?’

‘Done well and will be doing better,’ Gowry had answered. ‘Wait until he has the lot of us over here, then you’ll be seeing the sparks fly.’

‘All of you?’ said Albert.

‘He’ll be leaving him with nothing before he’s done.’

‘Leaving who with nothing?’

‘Him. Dada. The Owd Devil himself.’

‘Is that Forbes’s intention, to ruin your father?’

‘Nah, nah,’ Gowry said. ‘More it is to give the rest of us a leg up by fetching us all to Scotland, by giving us the opportunity to clear out of Malahide, to better ourselves. I tell you fair and square, Albert, there will not be enough in the brewing of stout to support even one of us before long.’

‘And will’ – Albert cleared his throat – ‘I mean, will Forbes be able to support you all over here?’

‘He will be supporting us and we will be supporting him.’

‘Was this always his plan?’

‘Always,’ Gowry lied. ‘Since we were kiddies shivering under corn sacks by the light o’ the peat fire.’

‘Corn sacks?’

‘For blankets.’

‘Oh!’

‘The nuns would come and throw scraps over the wall for us,’ Gowry went on, plying his vocation as a tall tale-teller. ‘Think of that, Bertie, having to be fed by nuns, though we were Protestants and there were thousands of starving Papes queuing up for the Church’s charity.’

‘I hadn’t realised,’ Albert said, ‘that things were so bad.’

‘Bad!’ Gowry exclaimed, not raising his voice. ‘They were worse.’

‘So being a – what is it?’

‘Chauffeur.’ Gowry completed the question with its answer, ‘Sure and being a chauffeur ain’t so bad after all, not when you never saw a motoring vehicle until you were twelve years old.’

It didn’t dawn on Albert until later that he hadn’t seen a petrol-driven motor vehicle until he was almost thirty, mainly because Daimler – or was it Benz? – hadn’t invented one prior to that time. He did not disagree with Gowry McCulloch, though, for the talk flowed on like the very stuff of history and one small inaccuracy made no difference and since what he was being told was only what he wanted to hear and to believe.

‘And your sisters?’ Albert said.

‘Will do anything Forbes tells them to.’

‘Loyalty, yes,’ said Albert. ‘I must say I do admire loyalty.’

‘She’s loyal to him, ain’t she?’ Gowry asked. ‘Your daughter?’

‘Sylvie?’ Albert did not offer a correction. ‘Yes, she loves him.’

‘Aye, don’t we all love a chap who succeeds against the odds?’

Deceived by the platitude, Bertie nodded agreement and asked, very humbly, if he might order another beer.

*   *   *

Forbes was more vigorous in the morning than in the evening when the rigours of employment had taken their toll and a slackening of mental agility rendered him less able to cope with Sylvie’s little tricks and tirades. There was another reason too: he called before noon whenever his schedule allowed because he had begun to wonder if her sexual inventiveness indicated that she was entertaining other men besides himself.

Suspicion kept him from becoming bored with the same old fare, however. Jealousy over imagined infidelities fuelled both his love and his lust and he would question her closely about the handsome minister at St Columba’s or the preacher at the Maryhill Home Mission for, at his insistence, Sylvie had relinquished all connection with the Coral Strand in favour of the Church and the clique of holy-rollers who met in the tin hall in Stevenson Street.

Brilliant though he was at mathematical calculations, Forbes knew nothing about psychology and even less about the theological hair-splitting that pitted free will against determinism. Comparisons between his lover and his wife seldom fell in the latter’s favour. He regarded Sylvie as far more interesting than Lindsay not in spite but because of her craziness. He even encouraged her to preach bizarre little sermons about God’s guiding hand while he lay damp and sated against her, to repeat sentimental poems in his ear while he dressed; to twist and pervert his judgement to the point where he thought her unique and curiously impenetrable in way that his pretty, plain-spoken little wife could never be now that he had succeeded in domesticating her.

He did not understand Sylvie and therefore could not control her. He provided her with every material thing, even loved her after his fashion; yet he remained blind to the fact that she was not like other women and marched to a different drummer.

‘What are you doing, sweetheart?’

‘Did Dada let you in?’

‘I have my own key, remember.’

‘Has Dada gone?’

‘Yes, he’s popped out for a little while.’

‘Is Gowry not with you?’

‘Gowry has gone with your dada for a glass of refreshment.’

She nodded. ‘Is it cold this morning?’

‘Very cold.’

‘I wish it were summer. Do you remember summer, Forbes?’

‘Of course I remember summer.’

He crossed the parlour and, slipping round the back of her chair, kissed the top of her head. Morag, the day-maid, had lighted the fire and dusted the room and everything looked perfectly ship-shape. Morag would be in the kitchen now along with Mrs Maddigan, the non-resident cook cum housekeeper, who was the very soul of discretion and wouldn’t show her face when he, Forbes, was visiting. Sylvie was clad in a close-fitting camisole under a silk dressing-gown that he had bought her last New Year. In spite of the bitter weather, her little feet were bare. Her hair had been brushed and ribboned, though, and there was nothing slatternly about her appearance.

She said, ‘Do you remember what you said last summer?’

June past; a glorious summer afternoon. He had dismissed Gowry and had taken the wheel of the motor and with Sylvie at his side had driven out into the countryside west of the city. She had been in chiffon, he recalled, pale lemon chiffon, cool and fragrant as a marsh flower in the baking heat of the afternoon. They had eaten lunch in the garden of a loch-side hotel, then had puttered along a rutted back road between somnolent trees and fields heavy with ripening barley. In one of those fields he had made love to her. He had wooed her first, murmuring, touching, sleek with perspiration, lying on a plaid rug in the motionless barley field a million miles from anywhere.

The unreality of the setting had obviously fixed the day in her mind, for she referred to it often and seemed to be chiding him because there had been no other like it.

‘I remember what we did,’ Forbes replied.

‘What you said?’

‘What did I say?’

‘You said you loved me.’

‘And I do. I do love you, Sylvie.’

She shook her head. ‘It isn’t the same. Why isn’t it the same?’

He had no answer, no explanation beyond the obvious: it was summer no longer, the streets of Glasgow were locked in freezing fog. It could not be the same now as it had been then, for transcendent moments of happiness could not be recalled, could not be precisely duplicated like the spacing of ordinates.

‘No,’ Forbes said. ‘Perhaps next summer we’ll—’

‘Will you come to live with me next summer?’

‘Oh, Sylvie…’ He sighed, then said, ‘What’s this you’re doing?’

He leaned over her shoulder and studied the photograph she had clipped from the Glasgow Herald: the King, the Queen and Princess Louise in court attire. He could not imagine what occasion had brought the three together until, peering at the small print, he saw that it was not a recent photograph but one drawn from files to illustrate an article on naval reform, though what Princess Louise had to do with the Royal Navy, Forbes had no idea.

Together with three large scrapbooks and a pot of paste, other illustrations snipped from newspapers and journals littered the table: the Grevilles’ Whitsun party at Reigate; the King and Admiral Fisher riding in a carriage; an oval portrait of Mrs George Keppel who everyone knew was the King’s special friend. Court and courtiers, lords and ladies, aristocrats and diplomats, the odd foreign prince or dignitary, Sylvie was obsessed with them. The closet in the hallway was crammed with mutilated copies of the Sketch, the Tatler and the London Illustrated News but Sylvie had no interest in the world at large, only in the artificial glamour of garden parties, court balls, race meetings, yachting regattas, banquets, state openings, fashions and frothy gossip. She spent hours browsing through her collection of scraps or, as now, bringing them up to date. It was, Albert said, a harmless pastime. Forbes agreed, even although he still had enough of the Irishman in him to resent the English monarchy’s glittering appeal.

‘That’s a pretty one,’ he said.

He slid his hands from her shoulders and cupped her breasts through gown and camisole.

Sylvie cocked her head and studied the portrait of Alice Keppel for a moment, sighed. ‘They say she sleeps with him.’

‘I expect she does,’ said Forbes.

For a moment or two he had almost forgotten why he had called this morning. Touching her reminded him. He did not have much time. Gowry would be hammering at the door in twenty-five or thirty minutes to remind him that he was expected at Beardmore’s. Hastily, he rubbed his palms over Sylvie’s nipples and nuzzled his chin against her curls.

‘I don’t think she sleeps with him. I don’t think the King would do that.’

‘I wouldn’t be so sure, dearest,’ Forbes said.

‘He is in love with his queen, with Alexandra.’

‘Hmm.’ Forbes slipped the tips of his fingers under the top of the camisole, stretching the ribbons and lace. ‘You’re probably right.’

‘Why do people make up such nasty stories?’

‘I’ve no idea.’

‘It’s mischief, that’s all. It’s wickedness.’

‘Yes, of course it is.’

He could feel her ribs rise and fall against his fingertips. Distracted and indecisive, she was at her most vulnerable. All he had to do was tell her what he wanted and she would comply.

Morning meetings lacked the sort of stealth that novelty required, though, a drowned light, a sheet to hide under, silence in the streets. He wanted her, though, and quickly, quickly. He hurried to the door and turned the key. Unbuttoning himself, he returned to the table, lifted her up by the hands and drew her to him. He opened her robe. Her expression was blank. He had seen that expression too often of late, as if she were thinking of someone else. He slipped his hand beneath the camisole, between her legs. Saw her eyelids droop. Felt her surge against him, warm flesh against his cold fingers.

Braced against the table’s edge, he pulled her against him and carefully inserted himself into her. He held her poised for a split second then drew her down on to him. She gave her customary little gasp, then, remembering who she was and what he meant to her, lifted her knees and rocked backwards, throwing her weight against his forearms. He entered her, not suddenly: he might be selfish but he was never cruel. She began to move against him, rhythmically at first then frantically. He tightened his buttocks and the long muscles of his thighs. Kneading her belly against him, she held him within her. Holding, holding, until quickly and carelessly he spent. When he struggled to extract himself, he lost balance, fell against her and, still spending, turned her around and around in a brusque little dance.

‘Stop, Sylvie,’ he gasped. ‘Stop, let me…’

She refused to release him. She sagged against him, clutching whatever was within her and beseeching it to stay.

He dragged himself from her, angrily hauled up his trousers, tucked in his shirt and, with his back to her, began buttoning, as if modesty would undo what had already been done. When he swung round again, still furious, he saw that she was crouched on all fours, rocking her hips back and forth, back and forth as if she had been suddenly struck by pain.

Astonished, he knelt by her. ‘Sylvie? What’s wrong? Did I hurt you? Oh, sweetheart, I didn’t mean to hurt you.’

The dressing-gown hung about her, hiding her body like a tent. She rocked for a moment more then abruptly sat back on her heels and drew the gown about her.

‘There!’ she said, smiling. ‘That’s done.’

‘What? What’s done?’ Forbes frowned, then scowled. He got to his feet. ‘Go and wash,’ he told her. ‘Sylvie, go and wash immediately.’

She looked up at him, smiling dreamily.

‘Are you not staying for lunch?’ she asked.

‘No, damn it. I’m not staying for lunch. Sylvie. Wash.’

‘Wash it away. Wash it away. Wash it all away.’

The chant reminded him of Harry’s childish crooning. Anger welled up in him once more. Helpless anger. He had no knowledge of how she cleansed herself and the mechanisms that he supposed he knew so well became secret and arcane. He reached down, took her by the arm and lifted her, not roughly.

‘Please, sweetheart,’ he said. ‘We do have to be careful, you know.’

She laughed silently. She looked wicked, then innocent, innocent and wicked by turns. He was helpless now, anger transformed into panic. He caught her hand, led her swiftly across the drawing-room and unlocked the door. He glanced across the hall, glimpsed the servant, Morag, in the kitchen doorway a second before she vanished.

Sylvie skipped beside him, swinging herself on his hand while he steered her to the door of the bathroom and opened it. The light from the marbled window was grey and cold. Brass taps, clinical white enamel, the pedestal, the steely mirror, the copper geyser, the odour of Regina Violet; he felt sickly and unclean pushing her into that chilly, antiseptic room.

‘Wash it away. Wash it away. Wash it away,’ she chanted gleefully; then, just before he closed the door, wiggled her fingers and showed her teeth once more. ‘Bye-bye, dearest. Bye-bye.’

‘Sylvie…’

The lock clicked loudly.

There was nothing for him to do but wait.

He was still waiting when, twenty minutes later, Gowry arrived to collect him and, ten minutes after that, he left.

*   *   *

The mould loft was enormous. Lindsay never failed to be impressed by it. She loitered on the matting at the top of the stairs and wondered how it would appear from her son’s perspective, a vast sea of planks upon which loftmen, draughtsmen and carpenters floated like mirages. The air smelled of freshly cut timber, sawdust and chalk, though the floor itself was kept scrupulously clean and there were no loud sounds save the rap of a mallet now and then or the brief, shrill whine of a band saw or planing machine.

It had been almost three years since she had last been here but she remembered most of what Tom had told her about how the floor was prepared for laying-off, how measurements from sheer drawings were chalked or scrived on to the flat black surface. Batten lines for a body plan were already in place and even at this early stage, Lindsay realised that there was something unusual about the shape of the vessel.

Carefully wiping her shoes, Lindsay stepped from the matting and eased her way down the side of the loft. Chalked figures indicated that the length of the vessel was one hundred and forty feet but the beam seemed unusually narrow. Puzzled, she studied the layout intently.

It was not until she glanced up that she noticed that two men were watching her across the breadth of the loft. Tom Calder wore a half-length brown cotton jacket and looked less like a marine engineer than a storekeeper. His companion was dressed in naval uniform. Stepping carefully over the chalk lines, Lindsay made her way towards them.

‘Ah, Lindsay,’ Tom said. ‘I’d like you to meet Lieutenant Commander Geoffrey Paget. Mrs Forbes McCulloch.’

The officer removed his cap, held it down by his trouser-leg, and shook her hand. Although it was cold he wore no topcoat. The two and a half stripes visible on his cuff suggested that he was probably a career officer caught in the limbo where promotions ceased to be automatic. She waited for Tom to explain just what Lieutenant Commander Paget was doing here and where he was based. A naval dockyard had been opened recently at Rosyth on the Forth but she had a feeling, just a feeling, that the officer was not a salt horse, as she had heard them called, but a staffer. Neither Tom nor Geoffrey Paget chose to enlighten her, however, and there was an awkward, almost embarrassed, pause.

At length Tom cleared his throat and said, ‘Mrs McCulloch is, in fact, a partner in our company. Quite trustworthy.’

‘A partner,’ Geoffrey Paget said. ‘Really?’

English, well-spoken, with a high, clear voice that hinted at arrogance. Clean-shaven, sharp-featured, hair as fair as her own. Face and hands lightly tanned as if he had recently returned from a Mediterranean tour. She could not decide whether she found him handsome or not – probably not – but she certainly did not find his manner attractive.

‘I am not an active partner,’ she said. ‘I take only a passing interest in what goes on at the yard. My husband—’

‘I believe you’ve met Forbes,’ Tom put in.

‘Yes, I have.’

Lindsay said, ‘Are you here to monitor our Admiralty contract, sir?’

Tom, she noticed, looked pained.

The officer, however, showed no displeasure, simply tilted his head back a little as if to distance himself from her.

‘What contract would that be, ma’am?’ he enquired.

‘The one that my father is engaged upon.’

‘Your father, ma’am?’

‘Arthur Franklin.’

‘Oh, you’re one of the family,’ Geoffrey Paget said. ‘I see.’

‘I would hardly be strolling about the mould loft if I wasn’t one of the family, sir, now would I?’ Lindsay said. ‘My grandfather is Owen Franklin and I am a stockholder in the firm. Even by the Admiralty’s strict criteria, and having regard to the fact that I’m female, I suppose I might be considered – what was it, Tom? – trustworthy?’

‘I shouldn’t have said that,’ Tom admitted. ‘My apologies. It’s just that, well, I didn’t expect to see you here, Lindsay. Got caught off guard a bit.’

‘I brought Harry to visit.’

‘Harry?’ Tom said. ‘Where is the wee chap?’

‘Grandee took him to look at the boats.’

‘Well wrapped up, I hope,’ Tom said.

‘Well wrapped up,’ said Lindsay.

Mention of her family steadied her. Her grandfather had built the floor upon which they stood now and her grandfather had found her ‘trustworthy’ enough to incorporate into the partnership, her sex notwithstanding. She was just as entitled to be here as anyone, including naval officers.

‘Do you have children, Lieutenant?’ she asked suddenly.

‘No, I’m afraid that I do not.’

‘I have two children, two sons,’ Lindsay said, as if that were justification enough for her intrusion, a basic sort of accounting that even a naval officer might understand. She assumed that he had a mother and that, even if he did not have a wife – perhaps he did for all she knew – he would be sensible enough to appreciate that the next generation of cadets would have to come from somewhere. She was tempted to press the point but, to her chagrin, Geoffrey Paget had taken Tom by the arm and, excluding her from the conversation, had deliberately turned away.

‘Sir?’ she said, testily.

He put out his hand, wrist bent. ‘One moment, please.’

He spoke to Tom in a low voice. She saw Tom – her ally – glance at her as if he had never seen her before. The word ‘trustworthy’ rang in her head like a telephone bell, irritating and insistent. She told herself to be calm, not to allow herself to be riled by this display of masculine superiority.

She said, ‘If you wish, sir, I will leave.’

‘No,’ Geoffrey Paget said. ‘Wait.’

He turned again, not in the least contrite, and placed himself before her. It was only then that she realised how tall he was, almost as tall as Tom, in fact. He separated his feet as if he were standing on the deck of a flagship, squaring up to an admiral. He still held his hat down by his trouser-leg and Lindsay noticed how he tapped the shiny brim against his knee two, three, four times before he spoke. Behind the officer, Tom raised his eyebrows and shrugged as if to disassociate himself from the official line.

The officer said, ‘What has your father told you of what’s going on?’

‘Not a thing,’ Lindsay said. ‘All I know, sir, is that he and my husband have both been much occupied in meeting the demands of a naval commission.’

‘Did either of them tell you what this commission involves?’

‘No, they did not.’

There was no pause, no hesitation. It was, Lindsay imagined, like being interrogated by an advocate in a court of law.

Officer Paget said, ‘Do you know what’s being laid off on the floor behind you, ma’am?’

‘I’m not sufficiently versed in naval architecture to be able to tell from the moulds what sort of vessel we’re building.’

‘Do you know what it’s not?’

‘It’s not a torpedo-boat or a destroyer,’ Lindsay said. ‘Or, if it is, it’s not like any I’ve ever seen before.’

‘If I tell you…’ Geoffrey Paget hesitated. ‘Will you promise, will you swear, not to discuss the matter with anyone?’

‘Who would I discuss…? Yes,’ Lindsay said, ‘you have my word.’

‘Total secrecy, Linnet,’ Tom put in.

She inclined away from them and surveyed the battens and scrive lines that were already in place. Towards the top of the loft a team of carpenters were mocking up a portion of the hull in rough frames and sections, a procedure that even she knew was unusual.

She had no doubt at all that the boat was a weapon of war.

‘Total secrecy,’ Lindsay agreed.

‘It’s a submarine,’ Geoffrey Paget said, ‘a brand-new type of submarine.’

And Lindsay, for no reason that she could explain, experienced within her a first faint stirring of fear.