CHAPTER FOUR

Sunday in the Park

Brunswick Park Choral Society had none of the pretensions of the big city choral unions. If there was such a thing as a written constitution no one knew where it was to be found, which is not to say that the society’s members did not take singing seriously. On the contrary: they were just as dedicated to musical excellence as any of the great orchestral choirs, and what they lacked in timbre they more than made up for in gusto.

Mr Perrino, the choir’s conductor, claimed his musical inheritance from an Italian knife-grinder who had docked at Greenock in the mistaken impression that he had reached the golden shores of the Hudson and who, being short on wit as well as cash, had decided to settle in Glasgow instead of re-embarking for New York. What had trickled down through three generations was an exploitable Italian surname, a perfect ear for pitch and a good set of vocal chords, attributes that had earned ‘Perry’ Perrino a decent living throughout the years and which – Deo gratias – he had passed on to his daughters, one of whom, Matilda, was presently the Brunswick’s accompanist.

The choir met for practice throughout the winter months in the assembly hall of St Silas’s School. It gave regular public performances in aid of the Tramways Servants’ Sick & Benefit Society and other local charities in the Boilermakers’ Institute in Partick, which was the venue for the final concert of the season.

Saturday was warm and sunny and drifted into one of those lovely clear evenings that now and then bless Clydeside. Because of the fine weather, though, the Boilermakers’ was less than half full when, at half past seven o’clock, Mr Perrino shepherded the choir on to the platform to desultory applause. Matilda Perrino, slender and elegant in a black evening gown, took her place at the piano, Mr Perry Perrino his place at the podium. He had a trim grey beard and wavy hair and wore a loose pale grey jacket that, in contrast to the formal dress of the singers, lent him a faintly Bohemian air.

‘Perry’s developing a tummy,’ Mercy Franklin murmured. ‘That ratty old grey jacket won’t hide it much longer.’

‘How right you are,’ Lindsay agreed. ‘Soon he’ll have to wear a bell tent.’

Mercy chuckled but when her little sister, Pansy, demanded what the joke was tapped the younger girl with her programme. ‘Don’t be nosy. Sit up. Pay attention. Look, there’s Dada.’

‘Where?’

‘With the baritones, back row, fourth from the left.’

‘I can’t see him.’

‘Behind the tall chap. See the tall chap?’

‘Mr Calder,’ Lindsay said.

‘Oh, is that his name?’ Cissie joined in the conversation for the first time. ‘How do you know him? Does he come to the house?’

‘No,’ Lindsay said. ‘I’ve met him at management meetings.’

‘You go to those?’ said Mercy.

‘Of course,’ Lindsay said. ‘Didn’t Martin tell you?’

‘What on earth for?’

‘To see for myself what goes on at the shipyard.’

‘Rubbish!’

‘All right,’ Lindsay said. ‘To annoy Papa. Is that better?’

‘Much better,’ said Mercy, and chuckled again.

Having brought the choir under control, Mr Perrino turned to the audience and delivered a brief speech of welcome, all flashing teeth and smiles.

‘Do you know,’ said Mercy from the side of her mouth, ‘I do believe the poor soul is trying to appear cuddly.’

‘Well, he’s not succeeding,’ said Pansy.

Aunt Lilias’s daughters had been press-ganged into turning out for the last concert of the season and were none too pleased about it. The boys, Forbes included, had gone instead to the Theatre Royal to see the Wilson Barrett Company’s production of Hamlet which, to the Franklin girls, was definitely the lesser of two evils. Even Pappy, seated next to Lilias, showed little enthusiasm when Mr Perrino with a little tap-tap of his baton swept the choir into Robert Lester’s setting of ‘Our Native Hills’.

Fifty minutes later the first half of the programme had run its course and the choir filed from the platform into the ‘long room’ where refreshments were served. Choir and audience mingled at the trestle tables. Uncle Donald waved but did not approach. Papa, engaged in carrying glasses of fruit squash to a brace of sopranos, did not wave at all. It was left to Mr Calder to approach the Franklin girls and enquire if they were enjoying themselves.

Lindsay replied politely that she was, and introduced Mr Calder to Cissie, Mercy and Pansy, who were not particularly interested in or impressed by the man. Tom returned to the safety of the choir and, seizing her chance, Cissie drew Lindsay off to one side.

‘What do you make of Forbes McCulloch?’ she said.

Lindsay was instantly on her guard. ‘Why do you ask?’

‘Tell me what you think of him.’

‘Are you stuck on him?’

‘No, but I think he’s stuck on me.’

‘Really?’ Lindsay said. ‘What gives you that impression?’

‘The way he behaves.’

‘Affectionately?’

‘He’s – he’s – forward. Very forward.’

‘In what way?’ said Lindsay, frowning.

Cissie glanced round; her sisters were chatting to school friends and Aunt Lilias and Pappy had been trapped by Mrs Goldsmith who was angling to be invited into what she regarded as the Franklins’ inner circle.

‘If you don’t want to tell me…’ Lindsay said.

‘I don’t know how to put it.’

‘It can’t be that bad.’

‘He shows himself to me.’

‘What do you mean by “shows himself”?’

Freckles glowed across the bridge of Cissie’s nose. Her blue eyes, normally bright and mischievous, were cloudy with concern. ‘He comes home every evening like a navvy,’ she said. ‘He rides across town from Parkhead on the omnibus, you see. You can smell horse on him, and other smells too, soot or grease or something. He sidles in by the kitchen entrance and goes straight up to his room by the rear stairs still wearing his filthy boots.’

‘How do you know?’

‘I watch him.’

‘You watch him?’

‘I’m not spying on him, if that’s what you’re implying,’ Cissie said, hastily. ‘Fact of the matter is, it’s impossible to avoid him. He’s there, constantly there. Showing himself to me.’

‘Precisely how does he show himself?’ Lindsay asked.

‘He comes out of the bathroom wearing nothing but a towel.’

‘Perhaps that’s what they do in Dublin.’

‘No, he loiters in the bathroom until he hears me in the corridor before he comes out with just a towel, a tiny little hand towel about his…’

‘Loins,’ Lindsay suggested.

‘Yes, loins.’

‘Why don’t you ignore him?’

‘I can’t.’

‘Are you sure you want to?’

‘Lindsay Franklin! How dare—’

‘I’m sorry. Go on, please.’

‘He swaggers towards me, looking at me, looking at me and smiling. I mean, our boys never parade about in that state. They’d be far too embarrassed. Besides, they have their dressing-gowns, and Mama insists—’

‘Have you told your mama?’

‘I haven’t told anyone yet.’

Lindsay laid a sympathetic hand on her cousin’s sleeve. ‘We can’t talk about this here. We’ll have to meet in private.’

‘When?’

‘Tomorrow afternoon, after church. We’ll meet at the iron bridge in Kelvingrove a half-hour after lunch,’ Lindsay said.

‘Good idea.’ Cissie sniffed. ‘You do believe me, Lindsay, don’t you?’

‘Of course I do, silly,’ Lindsay said.

*   *   *

Eleanor Runciman believed that the world was full of women plotting to lure Mr Arthur to the altar. She lived in dread that one night he would not return home. For this reason she made a point of finding out which swan-throated soprano or full-bosomed contralto was running first in the field of Mr Arthur’s affections, but as season succeeded season and the eager little divas became younger and more attractive Eleanor’s anxiety increased.

She had no reason to suppose that the man she loved was anything other than honourable. Men were such weak creatures and so easily led, though, that she was afraid that Mr Arthur might eventually succumb to one of the grasping little harpies, a younger, slimmer, still fertile version of the woman that she had been when she’d stepped into his house sixteen years ago.

The sight of the man she loved rubbing shoulders with some sweet-voiced young thing so filled her with gloom that she no longer attended choral society concerts. Recently her fear of losing not just her place in the household but her place in Mr Arthur’s heart had become so great that she could hardly bear to be civil to any of the women who turned up at Brunswick Crescent soirées. In the words of Osgood Turner’s famous song, ‘The years were passing, passing, passing, and the light in her heart grew dim.’ The trouble was that the light in Eleanor Runciman’s heart was not growing dim. Indeed, the older she got the more fiercely it seemed to burn.

When, just after eleven, Arthur opened the front door he found Miss Runciman waiting in the hall. He paused, a guilty silhouette, then whispered, ‘Eleanor, what are you doing up at this hour?’

‘Waiting to lock up, sir.’

‘I can do that, you know.’

‘I’ve left the whisky cabinet open and some cheese and oatcakes on a tray in the parlour in case you’re hungry.’

He removed his overcoat. She took it from him. The fragrance of the night clung lightly to the cloth; the fragrance of the night or the perfume of one of the flowery young women with whom Arthur had shared a hansom. Eleanor gave the overcoat a violent shake, hung it on a hook on the hallstand and locked the outside door and glass-panelled inner door. Arthur watched.

He called her Eleanor only when they were alone. Now and then she had been tempted to try him with Arthur but she could not relinquish her ingrained feelings of deference. ‘Do you wish me to pour your whisky, sir?’

‘No, but do come and join me for a nightcap.’

‘Thank you. I would like that.’

The parlour was lit by firelight and a single gas jet, the piano alcove filled with soft summery shadows. Eleanor wished that Arthur would play for her, would let her turn the music sheet and place a hand on his shoulder as Lindsay did, or Matilda Perrino, who was as slender as a willow and talented.

Mr Arthur didn’t have to ask what she would have to drink: a thimbleful of brandy and scoot of soda water. He handed her the glass and invited her to be seated. He cut himself a sliver of cheddar and, nibbling it, lowered himself on to the upright chair at the edge of the alcove, half in and half out of shadow.

‘Did the concert go well?’ Eleanor enquired.

‘It seemed to. What did Linnet have to say about it?’

‘She appears to have enjoyed it. She did not say much.’

‘She’s changing,’ Arthur said. ‘Growing up.’

‘She is grown up. She will be married and gone before we know it,’ Eleanor said. ‘Did you go back to Harper’s Hill afterwards?’

‘No, a gang of us went on to Pettigrew’s.’

‘For supper?’

‘Hmmm. To celebrate the end of the season.’

‘Another year gone,’ said Eleanor Runciman. ‘How it flies.’

Arthur dusted crumbs from his fingers, drank from his glass.

‘Talking of change,’ Arthur said. ‘My father will be leaving Harper’s Hill in a day or two. He takes possession of this Perthshire place on the first of June.’

‘He will be missed.’

‘Lindsay will be next to leave, I expect,’ Arthur said. ‘I’ll feel very cut off when that day comes. Perhaps I should marry again. What do you think?’

Eleanor kept her voice level. ‘Do you have someone in mind?’

He shrugged. ‘No one in particular.’

‘Miss Perrino, perhaps?’

‘Matilda? Far too young for me.’

‘What age is she?’

‘Twenty-two or -three, I reckon.’

‘Nevertheless, you have much in common.’

‘Matilda already has a young man.’

‘Does she?’ said Eleanor, less evenly than before.

‘In the other choir, the So-Fa. A Highlander, I believe, a tenor. She keeps rather quiet about him. Apparently her father doesn’t approve. No doubt he’ll be won over in due course.’

‘If not Miss Perrino, Miss Douglas perhaps?’

‘Rosemary? No, no. Rosemary’s a kind friend but not…’ He got up suddenly and to Eleanor’s surprise, laughed. ‘What’s all this about, Eleanor Runciman? Are you trying to marry me off?’

‘May I remind you, sir, that you raised the subject.’

‘Yes, I suppose I did. I don’t know what I’m blathering about half the time. I’ve no intention of getting married again. It’s all this blessed shifting about that’s put me at sixes and sevens. Pappy pretending he’s a country gentleman. Irish nephews descending upon us. Lindsay – well, Lindsay already planning what she’ll do when I’m dead.’

‘I beg your pardon?’

Amused by his own pessimism, Arthur said, ‘It’s true; well, half true. My dear daughter is beginning to show signs of ambition. She sits in on our management meetings and, when she remembers, makes notes. I wonder what she makes note of, for heaven’s sake.’

‘Do you wish me to have a word with her, Mr Arthur?’

‘If you would, Eleanor. Try to find out what’s going on in her head.’

‘Could it be the young man, perhaps?’

‘Young man? What young man?’

‘The Irish cousin.’

‘Forbes? Good God! I hope not.’

‘He seems very personable.’

‘Not to me he doesn’t,’ Arthur said. ‘He’s sly and self-serving, like his mother. Has he been here again?’

‘No.’

‘Is she seeing much of him elsewhere, I wonder?’

‘I expect she encounters him at Harper’s Hill. She could hardly avoid it.’

‘Well, I’m glad he isn’t lodging with us,’ Arthur said. ‘I wouldn’t be happy having that particular nephew as a resident in my house.’

‘If I might ask…’ Eleanor hesitated. ‘What do you have against your sister and her son?’

Arthur tugged his earlobe. ‘I don’t know.’

‘Oh!’

‘I’ve never liked Kay; Kay has never liked me. When we were children she was resentful of the fact that I got more attention than she did. That, at least, is Donald’s theory. Doesn’t really hold water, does it?’

‘I do not think it does, no.’

‘Kay and Helen were so damned outspoken. They gave Pappy and Mama a very hard time of it. Finally they gathered a little money from somewhere and struck out on their own.’

‘Set up house together, you mean?’ said Eleanor. ‘I believe I did hear something of the sort.’

‘They wanted to be independent, to have a life of their own. Wanted to behave like men, I suppose, but without responsibility.’

‘Why did your father allow it?’

‘Oh, they could wheedle the birds off the trees, that pair. Besides, Helen was practically an invalid and Pappy refused her nothing.’

‘Much good it did her, poor thing,’ said Eleanor.

Arthur was silent for a moment, then said, ‘You know, I’ve never known if Helen realised she was dying when she set up with Kay in Shalimar Street. If Kay knew it too, or if…’ He was silent again then, in a little rush, said, ‘She had a lover. Helen, I mean. She had a lover that none of us knew about. They rented the apartment in Shalimar Street so that Helen could be with him.’

‘Would he not marry her?’

‘He was, I believe, already married.’

‘Ah!’ Eleanor said softly.

‘Do you think that is a romantic thing to do? Do you approve?’

‘I certainly do not,’ Eleanor Runciman lied.

‘Oh, dear,’ Arthur said. ‘I’m not so sure.’

‘Really?’

‘Well, she was never strong, our Helen. I vividly remember winter nights with the doctor coming and going, the stink of medicinal vapour and Nanny, our old nanny, running to fetch hot fomentations and glass cups from the stove.’

‘Does Lindsay know about her aunts?’

‘Certainly not, no.’

‘Do you not think she should be told?’

‘Why?’ Arthur said. ‘It isn’t the sort of thing that a decent young woman should have to hear about her family.’

‘That her aunt was loved?’

‘That her aunt had a lover.’

‘If I may ask,’ said Eleanor again, ‘did Kay also…’

‘I don’t know,’ said Arthur. ‘Perhaps she was already – ah – consorting with Daniel McCulloch. I wouldn’t put it past her. She certainly let us down.’

‘Us?’

‘Lindsay and me. Left us in the lurch. How could she abandon her brother and her motherless niece with hardly a moment’s notice? She was off to Dublin with her brewer within forty-eight hours of making the announcement. Married without any of her family present, not even Pappy. He was hurt, so hurt. I don’t know how he found it in his heart to forgive her.’

‘How old,’ said Eleanor, ‘is the boy?’

‘No, it wasn’t a pregnancy.’ Arthur said. ‘Kay was married for over a year before the first child was born. In my opinion it was Daniel McCulloch who forced her to choose between her family and marriage.’

‘And she chose marriage?’

‘That’s how it seems to me.’

‘Looking back?’

‘Even at the time.’

‘Perhaps she loved him,’ Eleanor suggested.

‘Love!’ Arthur said. ‘I doubt if Kay knows the meaning of the word. It was all very distressing. If it hadn’t been for Nanny Cheadle – and you too – I don’t know how I’d have coped.’

‘Donald and Lilias…’

‘She was my daughter, Eleanor. Lindsay was all I had.’

‘Yes, of course. I’m sorry.’

For a moment Eleanor felt her sympathy waver. She had shared his life but not the making of him. She had no knowledge of the brief, loving marriage that had been brought to a close by premature death. She could forgive his bitterness but not the object of it. The boy, the nephew, could hardly be blamed for events that had happened before he was born. She got to her feet.

‘Don’t go,’ Arthur said, ‘unless, that is, you want to.’

If she had been in Kay’s position and Arthur had asked her to run off with him she would have put everything away, every duty, every responsibility, every consideration. She would have shouted, ‘Yes, yes, yes,’ and have been on the boat with him before he could change his mind. She sat down again.

‘Now do you see why I’m less than enthusiastic about having Forbes McCulloch join the firm as a trainee manager?’ he said. ‘What’s more I would prefer it if he did not come calling on Lindsay.’

‘I’m not sure he can be stopped, not without appearing to be rude.’

‘How many times has he been here?’

‘Once, just once,’ Eleanor said. ‘His father, McCulloch, what’s he like?’

‘I have no idea,’ Arthur answered. ‘Never clapped eyes on the fellow. Apparently the boy’s quite cock of the walk in Donald’s house. I don’t suppose I can stop Lindsay meeting with him there but I’d prefer him not to call on her here when I’m not at home.’

‘Are you forbidding him the house, sir?’

Arthur considered. ‘Yes, I do believe I am.’

‘You’re frightened of losing her, aren’t you?’

‘When the right chap comes along I’ll let her go willingly; but Forbes McCulloch is not the right chap.’

‘I would not say that to Lindsay,’ Eleanor advised.

‘Why not?’

‘Forbidden fruit, Mr Arthur. Forbidden fruit.’

First there was a frown, then a wry smile. ‘You’re absolutely right. Negative effect, what? Tell me, Eleanor, what do you suggest I do about young McCulloch?’

‘Nothing at all,’ said Eleanor.

‘Let nature take its course, you mean?’

‘Precisely,’ Eleanor Runciman said and shortly thereafter took herself off to bed.

*   *   *

It was a warm day with a touch of humidity, not oppressive. Hawthorn foamed with blossom, rhododendrons were in full bloom and on the river, under the willows, the first hatch of ducklings bobbed comically behind their mama. In the bandstand the band of the Royal Naval Reserve was thumping out orchestral selections just military enough to offend those Sabbatarians who had resisted the introduction of Sunday afternoon concerts. Most Clydesiders could not have cared less about preserving the Lord’s day; they just enjoyed a good tune. Even those unwilling or unable to fork out sixpence for a seat in the enclosure were content to lean on the railings or loll on the riverbank and take the programme as it came, for cornet, bass, trombone and the wheedling notes of the piccolo floated freely into all the corners of the Kelvingrove.

The beat of the drum, or at least its vibrations, penetrated Owen Franklin’s mansion on Harper’s Hill where, at Lilias’s insistence, Owen had finally addressed the problem of packing. The dressing-room on the second floor was strewn with tea chests, hampers and hat boxes. Mercy and Pansy had offered to assist but Pappy’s temper was on short fuse and Lilias had ordered all her children out into the park with firm instructions not to return home before half past five o’clock. Before Donald Franklin’s troops could muster, however, Cissie slipped off on her own to rendezvous with Lindsay by the iron bridge.

‘He’s coming,’ said Cissie breathlessly. ‘They’re all coming, in fact.’

‘What’s happening?’ said Lindsay. ‘What’s all the fuss about?’

‘Pappy’s finally decided to prepare for departure,’ Cissie explained. ‘I’ve never seen so much luggage. I don’t know where he’s going to put it, for the house at Strathmore is already furnished.’

They strolled under the chestnut trees, clearly superior young ladies and thoroughly absorbed in themselves. ‘Oh, yes,’ Lindsay said, as if the topic had just entered her head. ‘I believe you were going to tell me about Forbes.’

‘Forbes!’ Cissie made a unladylike gesture. ‘Him! I can do without him, I may tell you. I’m heartily sorry that he ever came to Scotland.’

‘Why? What’s he done now?’

‘Not only does he show himself off, he touches me,’ said Cissie, primly. ‘He keeps touching me.’

‘Where?’

‘In the hall, in the upstairs corridor, wherever he can.’

‘No, I mean – where?’ said Lindsay, agog.

Cissie glanced across the river as if afraid that her voice would be amplified by the trees and her confession made public.

‘He’s touched my – my breast.’

‘What!’

‘Stole up behind me, put his arms around me and placed his hands on my breast. He’s always taking liberties, Lindsay, frightful liberties. When we were playing charades last evening – why didn’t you come round, by the way? – when we were playing charades, he and I were sent out of the drawing-room, he pulled me into the cloakroom under the stairs and—’

‘What?’ said Lindsay again.

‘Kissed me.’

‘Why didn’t you slap him?’

‘I – I tried to.’

‘What did he do?’

‘He caught my hand and laughed. Then do you know what he said? He said that he liked a girl with a bit of fire in her, in her…’

‘What?’

‘Belly. That’s what he said, Lindsay. Honestly! He told me that he liked a girl with a bit of fire in her belly.’

‘How awful for you!’

‘I asked him what sort of a person he thought I was.’

‘What did he say to that?’

‘He said he thought I was passionate.’

‘Did he indeed?’

‘I swear that’s what he said. I’m not making it up.’

There was, Lindsay realised, more excitement than revulsion in her cousin’s response. What worried Cissie, apparently, was that she could not predict just how unscrupulous their Irish cousin might turn out to be.

‘Has he told you that he was sent down from school?’ Lindsay said.

‘Yes, he told me,’ said Cissie.

‘Did he tell you why?’

‘Something to do with girls.’

‘He prides himself on being a ladies’ man,’ said Lindsay. ‘At first I thought he was boasting but now I’m beginning to believe him.’

‘Oh, believe me, believe him,’ Cissie said. ‘He has absolutely no sense of propriety. And he’s so ridiculously young.’

A tiny green worm of envy wriggled within Lindsay’s breast. Its abrupt appearance had less to do with Forbes McCulloch’s fumblings than his compliments. Plump, befreckled Cissie, passionate and desirable? Cissie had never struck her as passionate and desirable.

‘If you really want to put a stop to his capers,’ Lindsay heard herself say, ‘surely a word in Martin’s ear will do the trick.’

‘Martin and the boys like him. Besides, I don’t want to cause a fuss.’

‘A fuss? He’s molesting you, Cissie.’

‘I think that’s putting it rather too strongly.’

‘If you don’t put an end to it he’ll take it as a sign that you’re willing.’

‘Willing?’

‘To go further.’

‘I hope you’re not suggesting I that encourage him.’

‘Of course not,’ said Lindsay. ‘None the less, a word to Martin…’

‘Martin wouldn’t understand.’

‘Oh, I think he would,’ said Lindsay. ‘When he kisses you, Forbes I mean, does he—?’

‘Yes,’ Cissie interrupted, cheeks glowing. ‘Yes, he does.’

‘He must be stopped,’ said Lindsay.

Cissie sighed. ‘I know. I know.’

‘He isn’t in love with you, Cissie. He’s just using you.’

‘I’m not sure that is the case.’

‘Cissie!’

‘Well, yes, I suppose you’re right. I just keep thinking: What if he really is in love with me? What if he’s too inexperienced to…’

‘Inexperienced?’

‘You know what I mean – too young to express his feelings.’

‘Look, would you like me to tackle him?’ Such a solution had obviously not occurred to Cissie; it had only just occurred to Lindsay. ‘Perhaps he’d take heed of me.’

‘Why would he take heed of you?’

‘Because I’m a fellow partner on Franklin’s board.’

‘That’s plain silly,’ said Cissie.

‘No, it isn’t,’ Lindsay said. ‘Forbes is very ambitious. I’d point out what he’s risking by behaving so badly. Point out what he stands to lose if he persists in taking advantage of you.’

‘Has he tried any of this nonsense with you?’ said Cissie.

‘No.’

‘Perhaps you’re too young for him.’

‘I’m only six months younger than you are,’ Lindsay said. ‘It isn’t me I’m concerned about. What if he sets his sights on Mercy or – heaven help us – Pansy? Think of the effect being molested would have on them.’

‘Devastating,’ Cissie agreed.

‘Do you see,’ Lindsay said, ‘why we have to put a stop to it?’

‘Perhaps we should tell Martin.’

‘Let me talk to Forbes first.’

‘Why you?’

‘I told you, dearest. I think he respects me.’

‘I’m older.’

‘Ah, but I’m the partner.’

*   *   *

Tom Calder received four hundred and twenty pounds in annual salary. Being a man of abstemious habits with only one dependent relative – Sylvie – he managed to rub along quite well on that sum, for, unlike George Crush, he hadn’t pushed himself into debt by taking a mortgage on a suburban villa. He lived in a residential boarding-house on Queensview where he rented not just a bedroom but also a snug little parlour. He had his career, his singing, his daughter and, by way of a weakness, a partiality for sugary foods that made the cry of the ice-cream vendor at the park’s western gate seem like a siren song.

Tom purchased a cornet with two scoops of ice-cream decorated with raspberry syrup. He curled his tongue over the surface and uttered a little hmmm of pure pleasure. For a moment, satisfaction softened the bleakness of his gaze and, licking diligently, he wandered through the gate and along the pathway that led to the fountain.

Quite unhurried, quite unconcerned, he did not much care if he encountered Florence or Albert or if he did not. He had called upon them last week to settle the bills and had been received by Sylvie with an unctuousness that he found harder to swallow than her sulks. He had noticed that Sylvie had begun to show discernible signs of femaleness, an indication that Florence would not be able to dress her up like a china doll for very much longer. He was just spiteful enough to wonder how his sister-in-law and her husband would cope with a capricious adolescent and how long it would take them to realise that they had raised a wilful little monster. He was still thinking of Sylvie when he spotted the Franklin girls on the opposite bank of the river.

They were no great distance from him, fifty or sixty yards at most. Their summer frocks and hats made splurges of colour in the blue and green shadows of the trees and Tom contemplated them for a moment or two before recognition dawned. His first impulse was to ditch the ice-cream and call out to them. Instead, hastily munching, he matched his pace to theirs until their ways converged at the iron footbridge.

‘Miss Franklin,’ he said. ‘Miss Lindsay.’ He did not offer his sticky hand but took off his straw boater and held it politely by his trouser-leg.

‘Why, Mr Calder,’ Lindsay said, ‘I hardly recognised you.’

‘Oh! I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to intrude.’

‘It’s not the intrusion,’ Lindsay said. ‘It’s the hat.’

‘Haven’t you seen me in a hat before?’

‘Often, but not a boater – or a striped jacket, for that matter.’

Cissie Franklin continued to glower at him as if he were a labourer who had forgotten his place.

‘Have you been boating?’ Lindsay said.

Tom felt like a small steam-powered engine that had been idle for too long. The pistons moved sluggishly: he could think of no witty reply. He told the truth. ‘I’ve been eating ice-cream.’

‘And that,’ said Lindsay, ‘is your ice-cream suit, I take it.’

He looked down at his perfectly ordinary blazer and cream-coloured flannel trousers. He had bought them in Dawson & McNicholl’s, the merchant tailors, to wear on his trip to Africa but even before he’d arrived at Burutu he had realised how daft the notion had been and had left them folded in brown paper in the bottom of his trunk.

‘What’s wrong with it?’ he said.

‘Not a thing,’ said Lindsay. ‘It’s very fetching.’

Tom was not so lacking in humour as all that. ‘Now you’re going to ask me where I fetched it from?’

Lindsay laughed. She looked remarkably pretty, a good deal less earnest than she did at management meetings. He was tempted to raise some serious matter of business to put her in her place but on a May day in the ’Groveries nothing, absolutely nothing, was more serious than a pretty girl in a floral hat.

Tom let out an undetectable sigh.

Lindsay said, ‘Are you meeting someone?’

‘No one in particular.’

‘Why don’t you walk with us then?’

‘Lind-say!’ Cissie Franklin protested in a stage whisper.

‘I don’t wish to…’

He caught the glance that Lindsay gave her cousin but could not interpret it. Some female code or understanding veiled its meaning. He knew nothing about women really, just enough to be sure that the girls weren’t flirting.

‘Your company would be very welcome, Mr Calder,’ Lindsay said.

‘At least as far as the fountain,’ Cissie added.

Then he thought he understood. Some chap, some masher had been making a nuisance of himself and the Franklin girls required male protection for a time. ‘It would be my pleasure,’ he said. ‘As far as the fountain.’

They made their way on to the Radnor, the broad tree-lined avenue that divided Kelvingrove into two halves. Tom found Miss Cissie Franklin one side of him and Miss Lindsay Franklin on the other. Each slid an arm into his and step-in-step, like a team of dancers, they wheeled left and sallied through the foot traffic, heading Tom knew not where.

And didn’t much care.

*   *   *

‘Good Lord!’ Martin said. ‘We leave you to your own devices for five blessed minutes and you come back with some poor chap in tow.’ He grinned, offered his hand. ‘Tom, how are you?’

‘I’m very well, thank you.’

‘Beautiful day, is it not?’

‘Beautiful.’

‘We’ve been tossed out,’ Martin said. ‘My grandfather’s in the throes of packing and Mama wants us out of the way. And you, what are you doing with yourself, apart from rescuing damsels in distress?’

‘Hardly in distress,’ Tom said. ‘In fact, I think they rescued me.’

‘Oh, from what?’ Martin said. ‘Some woman’s nefarious attentions?’

‘No,’ Tom said.

‘No such luck, what?’ Martin extended an arm and gathered his flock to him. ‘Ross and Johnny I believe you know. And surely you remember my sisters, Pansy and Mercy?’

‘Indeed I do,’ said Tom.

‘From the choir,’ said Pansy. ‘You’re a tenor, are you not?’

‘I am.’

‘Mr Calder also designs ships,’ said Lindsay.

‘I know that,’ said Pansy. ‘I’m not a baby.’

‘You were in Africa, were you not?’ Mercy said. ‘You went to the Niger to put our boats together.’

Tom noted the pronoun, ‘our’ boats. Although she probably couldn’t tell a spar from a splinter, young Mercy Franklin had more claim to ownership of the Niger stern-wheelers than he did. He felt no resentment. Unlike George Crush he wasn’t tarred with the Socialist brush. Besides, Mercy was a pretty wee thing and he was becoming rather susceptible to pretty wee things. Cissie, he realised, had claimed his arm again.

‘Did you like Africa?’ Pansy asked.

‘Not much, to be truthful.’

‘Did you meet any cannibals?’

‘Pansy, don’t talk rot,’ Ross said.

‘Oh, yes,’ Tom answered. ‘I dined with them several times.’

There was silence. Tom wondered if he had overstepped the mark of decency, then Martin laughed and the girls followed suit.

Cissie nudged him in the ribs. ‘Oh, Tom, you are a card,’ she said, and darted a glance at the dark-eyed, dark-haired young man who loitered at the back of the group. ‘Forbes, I don’t believe you’ve met Tom yet, have you?’

‘Tom’s our chief designer, a wizard with compasses and scale,’ Martin said. ‘I don’t know what we’d do without him.’

Cissie clung to him fondly. ‘Nor do I.’

Tom detected sullen hostility in Forbes McCulloch’s eyes. Snobbery or shyness? he wondered. Although he was a dozen years older than the oldest person in the group, the role that the girls had invented for him made Tom feel quite sprightly.

‘Unless I’m mistaken,’ he said, ‘you’re the new partner. We’ll be seeing a lot more of you when you’ve finished your year at Beardmore’s. It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mr McCulloch.’

‘Likewise, I’m sure,’ Forbes answered sourly.

*   *   *

‘I didn’t know you had a lover,’ Forbes said.

‘He isn’t my lover,’ said Cissie.

‘A fiancé then.’

‘He isn’t that either.’

‘Is he bucking to be your sweetheart?’

‘No, he’s just a friend,’ said Cissie.

‘He’s far too old to be your friend,’ Forbes groused. ‘Is he married?’

‘No.’

Lindsay’s inspired notion to pretend that Mr Calder was her sweetheart had worked a treat so far. Cissie had the Irish cousin right where she wanted him. She felt very gay as she strolled along behind Lindsay and the man who was supposed to be her sweetheart. Martin and Johnny were not far behind, though Mercy, Pansy and Ross had wandered off to the river to look at the ducklings. They would meet up shortly at the Refreshment Rooms where, Sunday or not, pots of tea and little iced buns were dispensed and there were green iron tables and green iron chairs upon the grass under the trees.

‘How long have you known him?’ Forbes asked.

Cissie felt her advantage slip slightly. She increased her pace to close the gap between her and the man in the striped blazer. From the rear he looked a little like one of those dandies that were the source of music-hall jokes; not a handsome chap, he had – je ne sais quoi, she thought – presence, character, something like that. ‘Years,’ she answered. ‘Absolute years.’

‘He thinks you’re just a kiddie.’

‘He does not.’

‘You can tell by the way he treats you.’

‘How does he treat me, Mr Know-All?’

‘Like a kiddie,’ Forbes said. ‘Not the way I’d be treating you if you’d give me half a chance. Anyhow, he’s a only draughtsman.’

‘He’s our chief designer and a department manager,’ Cissie said. ‘There’s nothing wrong in keeping company with a manager.’

‘He’s more taken with Lindsay than he is with you.’

‘He is not.’

‘Sure and he is. Just look at them together.’

‘Stuff and nonsense!’ Cissie said haughtily, though she had a very uncomfortable feeling that Forbes might be right.

*   *   *

Lindsay said, ‘I take it you know what’s going on?’

‘I have a vague idea, yes,’ Tom answered.

‘I hope you don’t mind being dragged into it.’

‘Not in the slightest.’

‘He’s such a painful young man, so pushing and conceited.’

‘Is that why you like him?’ Tom said.

‘I do not like him,’ Lindsay said. ‘It’s Cissie he fancies.’

‘Fancying girls at his age – tut, tut,’ Tom said.

‘I’ll bet you weren’t so forward when you were seventeen.’

‘No, but I’m not a Franklin,’ Tom said.

She glanced at him quickly. ‘Is that what you think of us?’

‘The Franklins have always done well by me,’ Tom said, ‘as well as a person in my position can expect.’

‘Your position?’

‘Department manager.’

‘You’re our principal designer.’

‘I’m really just an engineer at heart.’

Lindsay laughed. ‘My father says that engineers don’t have hearts.’

Tom laughed too. ‘He’s not far wrong.’

‘That was during the strike, of course. Did you down tools with the rest?’

‘I’m not a member of the Amalgamation.’

‘You were on our side, you mean?’

‘I’m on nobody’s side but my own,’ Tom said.

Conversation lagged: Lindsay wondered if she had offended him. The fact that they sat side by side on the board of management was immaterial. He would always be the worker, she the drone. Then she noticed that he was staring at a woman and child in the crowd, a girl, small and doll-like in a frilly dress and a tiny bonnet that barely concealed her ringlets. The girl clung to the woman’s hand as if the bustle of the park scared her but when she caught sight of Tom she scuffed her high-button boots into the gravel and acted more coy than shy.

‘Who is that?’ Lindsay enquired before she could help herself.

‘No one.’

‘If you wish to speak with them, please do.’

‘No.’ Tom hesitated. ‘I do not wish to speak with them,’ and walked on, stiff now and resolute, leaving the woman and child behind.

*   *   *

‘Tom Calder,’ Lindsay said.

‘What about Tom Calder?’ her father said.

‘Does he have a family?’

‘I believe there’s a daughter,’ Arthur said, ‘farmed out somewhere.’

‘Farmed out?’

‘Looked after by a relative, that sort of thing.’

‘No wife?’

‘She died some years ago.’ Her father looked up from his dinner plate. ‘Why the sudden interest in Tom Calder?’

‘We met him in the park this afternoon.’

Miss Runciman said, ‘Was the daughter with him?’

‘No. He walked with Cissie and me for a while. He even took tea with us.’

‘Tea at the Hill?’ said Miss Runciman.

‘In the park.’

‘They serve tea in the park now, do they?’ Nanny Cheadle said. ‘What’s the world coming too? It’ll be dancing next.’

‘What age is Mr Calder’s daughter?’ Lindsay asked, after a pause.

‘About twelve or thirteen,’ Papa answered. ‘Calder had some time off at the birth, I seem to remember, then again when his wife passed away.’

‘Before he went to Africa?’

‘Long before.’

‘Is this the same Mr Calder who sings in the choir?’ Miss Runciman said.

‘Yes,’ Lindsay answered.

‘Ah,’ said Miss Runciman. ‘I recall him. Tall gentleman, rather grim.’

‘He isn’t at all grim when you get to know him,’ Lindsay said.

‘Well,’ Miss Runciman said, ‘in my experience gentlemen with tragic pasts frequently develop hidden depths to compensate. How old is he, I wonder?’

‘Ancient,’ Lindsay said. ‘Absolutely ancient.’ And, before the housekeeper could press her further, swiftly let the matter drop.