The Shadow of the Sycamores (52 page)

Uniformed men and women from all parts of the world had been sent to Britain and, next to London, the place they most wanted to see was Edinburgh – a Mecca for sightseers in wartime as much as in peacetime. It was getting too dark to read the flashes on their shoulders as they strolled past him on the lower path between the street and the railway line but he could recognise some of the tongues. French, Polish, Norwegian, Australian, Canadian and, of course, now that the Yanks had come in, American.

James felt tired now, really tired, as if he had walked from John o’Groats to Land’s End, and he plumped down gladly on the first empty bench he came to. Atop the huge mass left by volcanic activity in some distant historic era, the castle was silhouetted blackly against the sparse light that was now left in the sky. There had been quartered all the Scottish regiments who had defended the Scottish capital against the English, and other marauders, down through the years. It had always attracted tourists and was well worth a visit – as he recalled
from having explored it several times when he was younger, always coming across something of interest that he hadn’t noticed before.

His stomach giving a sudden rumble and he wished that he had eaten something after the funeral. He certainly was a foolish old man, as Mrs Gove, their housekeeper, often jokingly remarked when he was trying to do something that involved any exertion. It was good to sit here quietly, though, with nobody to bother him and nothing to go hurrying home for. It would take time to adjust to being his own master, he supposed. A man needed something, or someone, to give him direction, to guide him through the days.

‘Excuse me, sir, do you mind if I sit here?’

James looked up and quite liked what he saw – a tall young man in air-force blue, smiling shyly. ‘No, no I don’t mind.’

‘I bet you’re like me,’ the stranger said. ‘You’ve been walking around so much your feet are killing you. Am I right?’

James grinned. ‘I’ve walked too far, I know that. Haven’t done much walking at all for … oh, goodness knows how long. Car from door to door, usually.’

‘That’s the trouble with most people nowadays. There’ll come a time when human beings lose the ability to walk and, in a few generations, they won’t have any legs at all.’

James couldn’t help laughing at that. ‘No, I don’t agree with you there. How can young men like yourself find a girlfriend if you don’t walk around a bit? And, once you’ve found her, you have to romance her – take her for walks in secluded places. You’ll know all about that, though.’

‘Not really. I’ve never been one for chatting up the girls. I’m a bit shy.’

They talked on companionably for fully twenty minutes, then James’s stomach gave another loud rumble. ‘Oh, excuse me.’

‘Have you eaten anything today?’ The young man sounded quite concerned.

‘As a matter of fact,’ James admitted, ‘it’s been a most unusual day for me. I buried my wife this afternoon …’

‘Oh I’m sorry to hear that.’

‘No need to be. I’m not. She ruled the roost and I’m glad to be rid of her.’

His companion quickly covered up his astonishment. ‘Look, I don’t think we should sit here much longer. The damp’s coming down and it won’t do your chest any good. What about having a bite to eat somewhere with me? I’ll pay.’

‘Indeed you’ll not.’ James was outraged at the idea. ‘I’ll pay. I’m nowhere near the breadline yet.’

He rose stiffly and staggered a little as his legs took his weight. ‘It’s with sitting too long,’ he excused himself.

The young man took his arm. ‘My dad says, if he sits for any length of time, he has the devil’s own job to get moving again.’

Over the next hour or so, James learned that his companion’s name was Malcolm Fry, that his mother had died when he was only eight and that his father had looked after him single-handedly from then on. In return, James said that, after his first wife died, he had stupidly married a younger woman who had just been after his money.

Malcolm insisted that James should get a taxi home and he was glad to agree. It had been a taxing day. While they were waiting, he gave the young man his visiting card. ‘I’d be pleased if you could come to see me tomorrow, Malcolm. I’ve a feeling I’ll be a bit lonely. Make it about one o’clock when my stalwart housekeeper will have lunch ready. That is,’ he added hastily apologetic, ‘if you’re not doing something else.’

‘I’m on a forty-eight hour pass from Turnhouse and I’ll be delighted to come.’

‘That’s settled then – see you tomorrow.’ Once inside the vehicle, James waved feebly in response to the young airman’s salute, then lay back, feeling every one of his seventy-odd years.

That evening, he thought over the last few hours. He had enjoyed the walk along Princes Street but the interlude with Malcolm Fry had really bucked him up. It had been good to have young male company again and he found himself wishing it was the next day so that they could talk again.

AC1 Fry had spent the night in a boarding house just off the Queensferry Road. It was good to be away from the dozen or so men with whom he normally shared a room – heaven to be able to lie quietly without being disturbed by different levels of snoring and groaning and other natural, but infuriating, noises. He had looked forward to having time to himself yet, by the time he had gone round the castle, walked down High Street as far as St Giles’ and then cut through to walk along Princes Street Gardens, he had had more than enough. The first few benches he saw had been fully occupied so his feet had rejoiced to see only one old man on the next seat he came to.

He had thoroughly enjoyed talking to James Ferguson and was looking forward to seeing him again. His overcoat had looked very expensive, probably Crombie cloth, and, when he took it off in the restaurant, he had noticed that his suit, too, had been of the very best quality. A man of means, then – perhaps inherited but more likely to have been earned in some highly qualified position. He would have interesting tales to tell.

James was impressed that his visitor arrived at one minute to one o’clock. Most of the young people he had ever come in contact with had been hopeless with time, late for everything, and usually with no apology or explanation. Mrs Gove had produced a good square meal, nothing fancy but very palatable and filling – thick lentil soup, a dish consisting of potatoes, onions and cheese (a favourite when she had used up their ration of meat), followed by seven-cup-pudding, a favourite of his. They both refused her offer of tea to follow (‘Sorry, no coffee.’) and adjourned to the sitting room.

‘I was thinking last night,’ he said, after speaking about the weather and barely touching on the situation in the Far East. The war had no right to intrude. ‘Can you drive, Malcolm?’

‘I’ve had a licence for over five years. I never had a car of my own but Dad let me drive him around and sometimes let me borrow his Austin.’

‘That is excellent. You will not be averse, therefore, to have the same arrangement with me? I still tootle around Fife, though
I am not too happy to drive into Edinburgh. All that traffic makes me nervous.’

‘I’ll be delighted to take you anywhere you want … if I’m not on duty.’

‘Yes, of course, I understand that. I will tell you what I had in mind, if I may? There is someone I have not seen for many years and to whom I would love to pay a surprise call. It is much too far for me to drive and we would need at least one full day to get there and back and allow us some time to talk, although an overnight stay would perhaps be better.’

‘That would be fine by me,’ Malcolm smiled, ‘but maybe we should wait till the weather’s more reliable. I’d feel happier if I could have a few short journeys first, anyway, to get used to your car. What is it, by the way?’

James screwed up his face. ‘My wife made me buy a Rolls. She was an out-and-out snob, you see. It’s fairly old now but still in the best of conditions. If you like, I’ll have my garage give it a good going-over, just to make sure that everything is as it should be.’

‘That would be a good idea but, to tell the truth, I’ll be scared stiff to drive a Rolls. What if I scrape it or damage it?’

‘It will repair. Do not worry – I am sure you’ll manage. We can go to South Queensferry for a start – that’s not far – and then, once you are used to the feel of it, you can have it for an evening. You can impress your lady friend.’

‘I don’t have a lady friend. I did have but we stopped seeing each other a few months before I was called up and I never met anyone else.’

‘You will, lad, you will,’ James smiled knowingly. ‘A good-looking fellow like you? The lasses should be falling over themselves to get you.’

To Malcolm’s relief, that subject was dropped and he was taken out to the large garage at the side of the house to see the Rolls Royce, an impressive vehicle by anyone’s standards. The bodywork was a pure shiny black and the trademark figurehead stood atop the bonnet, over the radiator, with, it seemed, her hair and her filmy dress streaming out behind her in the wind.

The inside was even more luxurious. The fascia was in gorgeous walnut, the seats were in a muted green leather and all the gadgets were made of chrome, the gear lever having a padded leather top. The carpets on the floor had a deep pile, deeper than Malcolm had seen in any house, and were in a dark green, which toned in with the upholstery.

‘Gosh, Mr Ferguson,’ he sighed, ‘I’m terrified to even think of driving this.’

‘I have every confidence in you,’ James smiled. ‘You can have as much practice as you feel you need and then … and then, you can take me to see my friend – something I thought I would never have the chance to do.’

The months passed at varying speeds for them. For James, impatient to set off on the journey he wanted to make, they crawled. But for Malcolm, unable to rid his mind of reservations about it, they sped past. He did like the old man but felt that their friendship had progressed too far, too quickly. Who else would offer the loan of a Rolls Royce – a Rolls, for goodness sake – to a practical stranger? What was even more unsettling was his reference to a two-day journey. An overnight stay? Did something murky lie behind this? Was James one of those … one of those men who preferred other men to women? What was he planning?

However, nothing untoward was said or done on their first little jaunts to South Queensferry. And when they had ventured further afield to Dunfermline one day and round the East Neuk of Fife to St Andrews on another occasion, everything was as proper as it should have been. He was enjoying himself now and so was James by the look of him.

With winter past, the weather grew milder and the trips grew longer and it was only when James remarked that he thought the time was right for the one journey he longed to make that something occurred to Malcolm – and he wondered why he had never thought of it before. ‘Where are you getting all the petrol, James? I know Rolls Royces are harder on the juice than any other make of car.’

The old man gave a secretive grin, then said, ‘I was a surgeon, you see, and having registered as such, I am entitled to as much fuel as I need. I had used hardly any of my petrol coupons before I met you, so I feel within my rights in doing this one last thing.’

He was so clearly serious about this that Malcolm hadn’t the heart to tell him his ruse could land him in jail if it were found out – or, at the very least, with a substantial fine to pay. But this trip, to wherever it was, would definitely be the very last, as far as the driver was concerned.

Thus, as soon as Malcolm was told he was due a ten-day pass, they arranged for him to sleep at Cramond on his first free night so that they could set out fairly early in the morning.

The die was cast and time would tell if the young man’s fears were justified.

Henry was feeling somewhat disgruntled. He had planned to pay another visit to Becky in case something had come back to her – something that might clear his son’s name once and for all – but the early morning rain had kept him inside. To be more correct, it had made his wife keep him inside. Fay was always afraid for his chest because his father had died of pneumonia. A little after ten, however, the sky took on a lighter tinge – not ‘enough blue to make a pair of breeks for a sailor’, as his beloved Gramma used to say, but enough to give body to another of her weather forecasts – ‘Rain before seven, sun before eleven.’ She had been a right character, his old Gramma. There weren’t many like her around today.

The old prophecy had come true and, by twelve o’clock, the sun was streaming into the kitchen, making Henry itch to jump on his bike – struggle on, would be more like it – and pedal off to The Sycamores area.

‘And where d’you think you’re going?’ Fay asked when Henry took his boots out from the cupboard under the stairs. He had never been comfortable in shoes.

‘Out.’

‘Where to?’ she demanded.

‘Just out. Can a man not please himself, these days?’

‘Not when he’s over seventy. I’m not trying to stop you doing what you want to do but I want to know what that is. You spent all day yesterday cleaning your old bike and blowing up the tyres, as if you were going to go out on it, but you’re not fit for that, Henry. You know you’re not.’

‘I’m fit enough if you’d leave me alone,’ he growled but slid the boots sheepishly under his chair.

‘You can go and meet Mara, if you like, on your feet, though. That’ll give you a wee breath of fresh air and maybe take that scowl off your face.’

Unable to argue with her for long, Henry’s mouth turned up as he resurrected the boots and tried to put them on. Sitting so long had made his feet swell and he had to loosen the laces a good bit before the opening was anywhere near wide enough. Fay watched, longing to kneel down and help him, but she knew better. She had won one victory; it would be asking too much to try for another.

It took some minutes before Henry, sweating and red in the face, stood up triumphantly, both feet shod, both laces securely tied, but he made a face when his wife held up the jacket she had taken from the peg at the door.

‘Anybody would think I was a bairn.’