The Good Provider (35 page)

Mr Lockhart seemed to be in no hurry to move out of the hallway, to find and greet his aunt. He swayed lightly on the balls of his feet and smiled again at Kirsty. It was the most candid and expressive smile that she had ever seen, a smile of sheer amiableness that reached into his eyes and made them twinkle.

Kirsty found her voice. ‘Is – is Mrs Frew really your aunt?’

‘Actually she’s a relative so distant that I do not know what to call her,’ David Lockhart answered. ‘My mother was her father’s cousin; whatever that makes us. Aunt will have to do, don’t you think?’

‘I’ll tell her you’re here.’

‘Are there rooms?’

‘Aye, lots of rooms.’

‘Good,’ said David Lockhart. ‘I’ve travelled from London today and I’m quite exhausted.’

‘Have you stayed here before?’

‘Many times,’ said David. ‘What’s your name?’

‘Nicholson, sir.’

‘Sir? Oh, no, Mrs Nicholson, you mustn’t call me that.’

‘How – how do you know I’m married?’

‘Your wedding ring,’ he said. ‘In addition to which you are some six months gone with child, if I’m not mistaken; and my dear old terrible auntie wouldn’t have you in her house if you didn’t have a husband.’

Kirsty wanted to laugh at his judgement of Mrs Frew but was at the same time embarrassed by his acknowledgement of her pregnancy.

David said, ‘Don’t be put out, Mrs Nicholson. I’m a doctor, you see, and have delivered so many babies that I can spot an expectant lady at a thousand yards. What’s your real name?’

‘Real—’

‘Christian?’

‘Oh! It’s Kirsty.’

‘I shall call you Kirsty, if you don’t object.’

‘No, sir. No, Mr Lockhart.’

‘Now – where’s Nessie?’

‘In the parlour. I’ll announce you, if you like.’

‘What a good idea.’

Craig crouched over the fire and shivered. In cupped hands he held a mug of hot cocoa spiced with ‘Bonnie Scotland’, a cheap whisky that he had purchased, half-bottle size, from a late-night wine merchant’s on his way home from the baths. He wore only lamb’s-wool combinations. A blanket draped his shoulders and he looked chilled and miserable. Kirsty suspected that he was nursing a virulent cold that had swept through the ranks in Ottawa Street and had felled even the stalwart Sergeant Drummond. She had already filled a hot bottle and put it in the bed, had offered him Jeffe Powder which he had gruffly refused. She dried the supper dishes as quietly as possible, racked them and set out the plates that would be needed to serve Mr Lockhart breakfast in the dining-room.

Mrs Frew had welcomed the young man with open arms, had taken him into the parlour and had told Kirsty to serve supper there. She had had a sausage hot-pot on the go and had divided it between Craig and Mr Lockhart, skimping on her own portion, and a rich damson pie which she had coated with thick yellow custard. Mr Lockhart had thanked her kindly for ‘doing him the honours’ at such a late hour but Mrs Frew did not encourage Kirsty to join the conversation. The old lady clearly wanted Mr Lockhart all to herself; Kirsty could hardly blame her for that.

Out of the coat and scarf, relaxing by the parlour fire, Mr Lockhart was a handsome man, easy and affable in his manner and quick with his charming smile.

Craig said, ‘Who the hell is he?’

‘I told you,’ Kirsty said. ‘He’s a relative of Mrs Frew.’

‘Is he still in there wi’ her?’

‘I haven’t heard him come out.’

Craig said, ‘Aye, maybe he’s her lover.’

‘Craig! For God’s sake!’

‘I’ve seen stranger things.’ Craig supped from the cocoa mug, reached behind him, took the half-bottle of ‘Bonnie Scotland’ from the table, poured liberally. ‘You’ve no idea what these old birds get up to.’

‘You’re talkin’ daft,’ said Kirsty, offended. ‘Anyway, he’s a doctor.’

Craig snorted. ‘So was Barret Deanes.’

‘Who?’

‘The Partick Poisoner.’

‘How can you be so – I mean, you haven’t even met Mr Lockhart.’

Craig did not answer. He drew his chair closer to the grate.

In silence Kirsty finished her chores. The clock on the shelf told her that it was almost eleven. In seven hours she would have to be up again. Craig, if he was well enough, would be off by a quarter past seven.

Craig said, ‘What’s the weather like now?’

Kirsty peered from the window. She could see only a grey swirling substance that seemed to have replaced the darkness by something almost alive. She drew back.

‘Well? Is it still foggy?’ Craig snapped.

‘I’ll go to the door an’ look,’ said Kirsty. ‘I want to lock up properly, anyway.’

Craig nodded, got up, shivered, stretched and put down the empty mug. He lifted the whisky bottle. ‘I’d better hide this. I wouldn’t want her drinkin’ it.’

Drawing the blanket about him he left the kitchen and padded wearily along the corridor to the servant’s room where, in a big double bed manhandled down from the second floor, he and Kirsty slept.

‘I hope you feel better tomorrow, dear,’ Kirsty said.

‘I feel fine,’ said Craig.

She watched him go. She felt sorry for him, but also irritated. She picked up the iron poker, carefully stirred the coals in the grate, added a few lumps from the scuttle and a shovelful of dross, closed the iron doors and locked them in the hope that the fire would still be alight come morning.

For four or five minutes she pottered about the kitchen, making everything spick and span before she turned off the gaslight. In the half dark she could feel the fog envelop the building but it did not make her uncomfortable now. In fact all the worries that had beset her earlier in the evening seemed to have melted away; no accounting for her moods these days. She brushed her hands over her stomach to smooth her skirt, tidied her hair and went out into the corridor. St Andrew, back in place on the half-landing, glowered luminously down at her. She gave him a wink and paused near the parlour door, listening. Hearing no sound she went down the hallway to the main door, opened it and peered out into the fog.

It was thicker than ever, dense, mobile, all-enshrouding. The only hint of animate life came from deep within it, the muted lowing of a foghorn and, a moment later, the answering wail of a tugboat’s hooter. She thought she heard a goods train tiptoeing over the rails behind the bowling-green but she could not be sure. Eyes smarting, she squinted into the grey-brown bank of fog in which nothing but the fog itself moved.

‘Kirsty?’

Kirsty turned. Mr Lockhart – David – had slipped out of the parlour. He came towards her, smiling.

‘Is it still bad out there?’ he asked.

‘Aye; worse, if anythin’.’

‘Is your husband safe home?’

‘In his bed. He has a cold, I think.’

‘Does he walk to work?’

‘Yes.’

‘That’s just as well,’ said David. ‘I doubt if there will be much movement of traffic tomorrow morning.’

‘Are you hopin’ to return to Edinburgh?’

‘I must. I have a class at ten.’

‘A doctors’ class?’

‘No,’ David said. ‘Medicine’s behind me, for the time being.’

He leaned on the doorpost and looked at the invisible street then touched her gently on the shoulder. ‘Perhaps you should come inside, Mrs Nicholson. This stuff can be very sore on the lungs.’

Kirsty stepped back. She did feel a little breathless, come to think of it.

‘Let me do it,’ David said.

Kirsty watched him bolt the big main door and affix the safety-chain. He had fine hands, long-fingered and delicate.

‘Do you require a lamp, Mr Lockhart?’

‘To light me upstairs?’

‘Aye.’

‘No, Kirsty. St Andrew will guide me.’

‘What time do you want your breakfast?’

‘Early,’ David said.

‘I’ll serve at seven, will that do?’

He looked at her, one foot on the stair, one hand on the knob of the banister.

‘Perfect,’ he said.

Craig felt as if he had swallowed a lighted blowtorch. The lining of his throat was raw and when he coughed, which he tried not to do, that rawness spread like fire down into his chest. He had no fever, fortunately, only an ache in the head and a general shiveriness that he tried to pretend was nothing more serious than a response to the weather, a dank grey-white day fog with spider-trails of frost in it. When he entered the muster room at Ottawa Street he was not surprised to find that two constables had not turned up and that another, Bill McFarlane, had staggered in from his beat in the wee small hours, very sick indeed.

It had been a quiet night at Greenfield, however. Villains were no fonder of being out in such foul weather than were ordinary God-fearing citizens. Whatever toll the fog would take in lives – and down-and-outs would die in droves before the blanket lifted – the discovery and carrying in of ragged corpses had not yet begun. Along the river reach few folk were to be seen. Hedderwick’s stood silent long after the opening hour. On Ottawa Street and along Dumbarton Road the fog hung so thick and clinging that horse traffic moved about as silently as ticks in wool.

Sergeant Drummond did not report for duty. He sent a message with a lad to say that he hoped to return tomorrow morning, all being well. Sergeant Stevens, on extra duty, delegated Craig to relieve Constable Cropper at the junction of Kingdom Road and Grace Street. Here the Burgh Sanitation Department had dug a great gaping trench in the cobbles which would in due time contain a new main drain but which, with fog down, presented a serious hazard to life and limb. Tommy Cropper was damned glad to see his relief emerge from the fog. He gave Craig a nod and muttered a few words of instruction regarding the duty before, coughing too, he trudged off into the murk to sign himself off to breakfast and to bed.

Six iron cans marked the limits of the trench. Each had a duckbill snout and a trailing wick of teased cotton which burned with a great soft yellow flame. On the pavement close at hand was a tap-barrel from which the cans were refuelled with oil and a bucket which held several pine torches, cloth-headed and soaked in tar. The burned-out stobs of the flares that had seen Tommy Cropper through the long watches of the night had been stuck in the mound of clay that banked the trench. The stench of smoke wicks and tar, added to the reek of the fog, disorganised the senses thoroughly just as the whole routine of the burgh had been disorganised, with trams and cabs, carts and trains, mails and cattle and bakers’ drays all lost and immobilised, and pedestrians stumbling about like shades in purgatory.

Craig hefted up a fresh flare, lit it from one of the cans and rolled the pole in his hands to make the tar burn evenly. Holding the flare away from him he patrolled the perimeter of the trench and called out, ‘Mind your step. Take care. Take care,’ until his throat ached.

He peered north up Kingdom Road towards Dumbarton Road, head cocked. He could see nothing, hear little. He did not even know if it was dawn yet and listened for the chime of the Burgh Hall clock.

Bong. Bong. Bong. Booonnng  . . .

The notes wavered, distorted and were lost as a draught of air stirred the fog and made the flare hiss and sizzle. Craig swung round. A cart was crawling up Kingdom Road towards him. He raised the flare high and shouted, ‘
Go cautious, carter. Hole in the road. Hole in the road.’

It was only when the horse coughed, a barking sound, that Craig realised that the cart was close to the pavement on the left of the road. He still could not see it. Behind him was the knee-high mound of clay and cobblestones that had been excavated; behind that was the trench, four or five feet deep.

The cart loomed suddenly out of the fog, cutting the corner.

‘CAREFUL, MAN, FOR GOD’S SAKE,’ Craig roared.

He ducked to one side, staring up at the wheel, saw on the board old Bob McAndrew, pipe in mouth, a monk’s hood of sackcloth draped over his shoulders.

‘STOP,’ Craig shouted. ‘DAMN YOU, STOP.’

His whistle was buttoned into his pocket, his baton in the holster at his side. He did not dare use the flare to protect himself in case he frightened the horse and made it flyte away; a runaway in the blind streets would be a dreadful danger to women and children. He swung the flare down like a flag of surrender and the cart jerked to a halt inches from him.

‘Huh!’ Bob McAndrew said. ‘So it’s you, is it?’

The old man took the pipe from his mouth and spat a gobbet of saliva forcefully on to Craig’s chest.

Rage surged up in Craig, a narrow burning hatred of the old fool. He would have flung the tar pole at him if he had not been in uniform, on duty. The discipline of the past weeks saved him. He stabbed the pole into the mound and swung round again, spittle like lace on his breast.

He said, ‘Do you want to spend the bloody day in a cell in Ottawa Street?’

‘An’ who’ll take me there? You?’

‘Fog or no fog,’ Craig said, ‘I’ll take you there an’ I’ll see to it that you stay.’

‘On what bloody charge, son?’