One for Sorrow Read online

  Tom considered his options. He supposed he could try telling Lou the truth, though Tom wasn’t sure he was quite ready for that yet. Or he could make something up. After a moment’s hesitation, he opted for the latter.

  ‘The thing is,’ he said, ‘I’ve, I’ve run away from home.’

  ‘I see,’ said Lou, gravely. ‘Is this because of your stepfather? The . . . heckle and snide character.’

  ‘Jekyll and Hyde,’ Tom corrected him and thought how weird it was. After all, it was, or at least it would be, one of Lou’s books, at some point in the not-too-distant future. He made a mental note to keep mentioning it regularly, just to make sure the title stuck.

  ‘You’re saying this Hamish character is violent towards you?’

  ‘Well, not exactly. But he’s really sarky, sometimes. And he’s a Hibs fan.’

  ‘A what?’

  ‘Oh, it’s a . . .’

  ‘You mean, the football team? Hibernian?’

  ‘Oh, yeah. Are they . . . already going?’

  ‘Irishmen. They play down in Leith, I believe. Quite a new club. I don’t really follow the sport, but I believe they’re closely identified with the Irish Home Rule Movement.’

  ‘Is that right?’ Tom was astonished. ‘Wow.’

  He had no idea that a football club would have such a long history. ‘Well, anyway, Hamish follows them and, and he drinks a lot, too.’ He felt vaguely guilty saying this, after the seemingly reformed Hamish he had recently encountered, but he supposed he had to say something that would explain his situation. ‘So I thought, I know, I’ll run away from home and I’ll stay with my old mate, Cat, er, Catriona.’

  Lou looked worried. ‘Well, it’s very irregular,’ he said. ‘It seems to me you’ll have to furnish me with your parent’s address in Fairmilehead. I’ll write to them and explain that you’re staying with us as a guest. Then we’ll see what they propose to do about it.’

  That could be interesting, thought Tom. Don’t expect a quick reply. But he didn’t say anything.

  ‘You know, son,’ continued Lou, ‘running away from a problem is really not the best way to deal with it.’

  ‘No,’ agreed Tom. ‘I understand.’

  ‘You need to be a man about it,’ said Lloyd, as though he had considerable experience of the subject. ‘You need to look your problems in the eye and deal with them.’ He was obviously repeating something that his father, the ‘Civil War hero’ had told him. Lloyd allowed himself a smug smile and Tom felt like blowing a big loud raspberry in his face.

  ‘We won’t let it cloud the evening,’ announced Lou. ‘Let’s talk about it when we’re home.’ He leaned back in his seat. ‘But Tom, there’s something else I wanted to ask you.’

  ‘Oh yeah?’ Tom looked at him warily. ‘What’s that, then?’

  ‘Do you really know Catriona McCallum?’

  Tom stared at him. ‘Yeah, of course,’ he said.

  ‘You see, I’ve always found her very hard to approach. She strikes me as an extremely interesting lady, one who has evidently led a colourful life. But on the few occasions I’ve had the opportunity to speak to her, she’s barely given me the time of day.’

  ‘Oh, well, I’ve known her for ages,’ said Tom. ‘Yeah, we used to knock around together. We were almost like . . . boyfriend and girlfriend.’

  Lou stared at him. ‘But, she’s in her seventies,’ he said.

  ‘Umm . . .’

  There was a deep silence. Tom sat there, trying to think of something to say, but the life of him he couldn’t come up with anything.

  Then a hearty ‘whoah!’ from the coachman announced that they had arrived at their destination. Relieved at the diversion, Tom opened the door of the cab and leapt quickly out. He turned back to help Lou step down and saw that the cab had stopped outside a grand terrace of three storey town houses. Lloyd jumped out and slammed the door shut. Lou turned back to speak to the driver who was sitting up at the rear of the compartment.

  ‘Come back for us at eleven o’ clock,’ he said. The cab driver nodded. He was cloaked against the bitter cold. A scarf was pulled across the lower part of his face and a broad-brimmed hat pulled down over his eyes. He cracked his whip and rode away.

  Lou turned back and gave Tom a shrewd look. ‘Don’t think I’ll forget to ask you that question again,’ he murmured. ‘Because your story does not make any kind of sense.’ He stepped past the boys and led the way up the stone steps to a huge, black painted door. ‘Now,’ he said, looking at his companions. ‘The charm offensive begins.’

  And with that he reached out and rang the bell.

  Eight

  William Henley was standing in front of a marble fireplace when the visitors were ushered into his front room. Lit by the flames of a roaring fire, his tall burly figure instantly displayed how he had inspired the character of Long John Silver. He was a big, broad-shouldered fellow with handsome features and an unruly red beard that hung down onto his chest. He was resting his weight on a simple wooden crutch and Tom could see that his left leg finished at the knee, where his trousers were neatly folded back and secured. As his guests approached, he grinned delightedly at them.

  ‘Here he is at last,’ he said, in a big, booming voice, with what Tom immediately recognised as a cultured English accent. ‘Edinburgh’s most intriguing author and his little Yankee chip-off-the-old-block.’ He prodded Lloyd in the chest with a huge index finger, making him squirm. ‘I was beginning to think you two had abandoned me to my own poor company.’ He transferred his attention to Tom. ‘But who the devil’s this? You didn’t tell me you were bringing someone else!’

  ‘This is Tom Afflick,’ said Lou. ‘A . . . new acquaintance. I hope you’ll forgive me, I took the liberty of bringing him along. He came to my aid the other night when I was suffering from a spot of the old trouble and helped me to get home. He’s er, staying with us for a few days.’

  ‘Is he now?’

  ‘Yes, he is,’ muttered Lloyd glumly and Lou shot him a warning glance.

  ‘Well, I’m delighted to meet you, young Tom.’ William extended a meaty hand and pumped Tom’s arm vigorously up and down. ‘Any friend of the Stevensons is a friend of mine.’ He took a step back, moving with practised ease on the wooden crutch. ‘The season’s greetings to you all, I’m sure!’

  ‘And to you also, William,’ said Lou. He looked with evident envy at the tall, richly decorated tree standing in the corner of the room, it’s topmost plume nearly touching the high ceiling. ‘I must say your tree puts our puny effort well and truly to shame.’

  William rolled his eyes. ‘Oh, you know Hannah. Every year, the blessed thing seems to grow bigger and more luxurious. I’m not as convinced of these strange German customs as she is. But, I suppose if it’s good enough for our dear Queen, then it shall do for me.’

  Lou looked around the room. ‘And where is Hannah?’ he enquired.

  ‘Alas, she had some infernal matter to attend to at her parents. But, as I already knew that Fran wouldn’t be accompanying you, I didn’t dissuade Hannah from staying with them for the night. I thought we’d have a lads’ evening,’ he added, with a sly wink. ‘But come, come, I’m forgetting my manners! A glass of malt whisky would I’m sure be agreeable, Lou. And perhaps some cordial for the two younger members of the party?’

  ‘I’d like to try the whisky,’ said Lloyd, bluntly.

  ‘I’m sure you would,’ said Lou, calmly. ‘But it’ll be cordial for you for a few years yet, Sonny Jim.’

  Servants were summoned, drinks were brought on silver trays and then they all seated themselves comfortably around the fire. Tom found himself sitting, much to Lloyd’s evident annoyance, right next to Lou.

  ‘So,’ said William, smiling at Lou. ‘It is of course, always a pleasure to see such a dear friend, but the tone of your note rather suggested that you had some particular reason in wanting to see me.’

  Lou nodded. ‘I trust you’ll forgive me, William, and I know how dreary it is
to have to discuss business when you’re supposed to be relaxing . . .’

  William waved a hand in dismissal. ‘Not at all,’ he said. ‘Come along, out with it. What’s on your mind?’

  ‘Well, I’ve been discussing The Sea Cook, with Tom here . . .’

  ‘Treasure Island,’ Tom corrected him.

  ‘The Wreck of the Hispaniola,’ added Lloyd.

  ‘Er, quite. And I’ve come to the conclusion that perhaps the pages of the Young Folks paper is not the best place for it.’

  William frowned. ‘I see. Am I to take it that you’re not happy with the terms of your contract with Mr Henderson?’

  ‘Oh, no, it’s nothing like that,’ said Lou hastily. ‘He has been most accommodating. And of course I’m grateful to Dr Jap for introducing me to him in the first place. But, well, Henderson’s last letter suggested that the

  serial hasn’t been so well received by readers of the paper. In fact, he intimated to me that sales were slightly down on previous editions.’

  William scowled. ‘Well, there’s no accounting for taste,’ he said. ‘For my part, I think it’s a splendid story. Full of swashbuckling adventure.’

  ‘I think it has its charms,’ said Lou. ‘I’ll admit, I had thought that it would travel no further than the pages of a halfpenny periodical, but Tom here . . .’

  William looked at Tom with interest. ‘What about him?’

  ‘He thinks it’s destined for bigger things. And, well, I’m afraid he’s rather persuaded me to pursue the idea of releasing it as a . . . as a book.’

  William smiled. ‘I see.’ He looked at Tom with interest. ‘And what makes you think that’s such a good idea?’ he asked.

  Tom was aware that everyone was looking at him, most of them fondly, but in Lloyd’s case with venom virtually shooting out of his eyes.

  ‘Well, I, I’ve read it, obviously.’

  ‘Not all of it,’ William reminded him. ‘There’s still quite a few more instalments to come, isn’t that right, Lou?’

  ‘Yes. It runs through till late January.’

  Tom nodded. He remembered that he was only half way through the book version himself, but he wasn’t going to let that put him off. ‘Erm, right. But from what I have read . . . I just think it’s a brilliant book that’s got a really big future ahead of it.’

  ‘You have a crystal ball, do you?’ asked William.

  ‘Sort of,’ admitted Tom. ‘You know when you just have a feeling about something? When you just kind of . . . know?’

  ‘Well, that’s not to be sneezed at,’ observed William. ‘Gut reactions are as good as any other method when trying to deduce the potential of a story. As I was only saying to James Barrie, the other day, one must . . .’

  Tom wondered why that name was vaguely familiar to him and his puzzled look must have been evident.

  ‘He’s one of William’s young cronies,’ said Lou. ‘I believe the lad has ideas about becoming a playwright, isn’t that right, William?’

  William nodded. ‘He’s a smashing young fellow, actually. Studying literature at the University at the moment. He wanted to try and be a writer, but his parents persuaded him that there was no security in it and urged him to get a degree. Mind you, in his spare time, he’s writing drama reviews for the Edinburgh Evening News under the name, J.M. Barrie. Anyway, he was asking me only the other day . . .’

  ‘J.M. Barrie?’ asked Tom incredulously. ‘Isn’t that, I’m sorry, isn’t that the guy who wrote Peter Pan?’

  Lou and William looked at him in puzzlement.

  ‘I don’t recall anything by that name,’ said William. ‘As I say, he’s really only starting out, it’s reviews and short pieces mostly. But he does have an ambition to write for the stage one day.’ He waved a hand in dismissal. ‘We were having lunch the other day and he asked me what I thought would make the perfect subject for a successful play. I said to him, James, you simply have to go with your gut reaction.’

  Tom shook his head. ‘Just tell him to write about a kid who never grew up,’ he said, and then became aware that the others were giving him very odd looks indeed. ‘I mean, it’s just an idea,’ he muttered. ‘Off the top of my head.’ He felt vaguely stunned and wondered how many other famous authors were lurking in the shadows of Edinburgh. He half-expected another one to leap out from behind the Christmas tree at any moment and start handing out copies of his latest bestseller.

  William smiled. ‘Anyway, enough about young James and his lofty ambitions. It’s Lou we’re discussing at the moment, somebody who has already made his mark upon the literary world. And I suppose what you’re asking me is, do I think that The Sea Cook . . .?’

  ‘Treasure Island,’ said Tom.

  ‘The Wreck of the Hispaniola!’ snapped Lloyd

  ‘Er . . . indeed. Do I think the story could reach a wider audience?’ William appeared to consider for a moment. ‘Well, one must bear in mind, of course, that it is only aimed at younger readers, so . . .’

  ‘That’s a huge audience,’ Tom assured him. ‘Massive. Every school in the country will want to have that as a class reader.’

  William seemed amused by this. ‘You seem to know quite a bit about the publishing industry,’ he observed. ‘Are you from that background yourself? Your parents perhaps or . . .?’

  ‘No! No, I’m just . . .’

  ‘He’s just a know-all,’ murmured Lloyd and once again, received a warning glare from Lou.

  William ignored the comment. ‘Well, clearly, Lou, you’ll have to wait at least until the serial has run its course, before you can even think of offering it to someone else. I seem to remember you telling me that your contract with Mr Henderson was only for first publication rights. The copyright remains with you, is that correct?’

  ‘That’s what I understand to be the case,’ agreed Lou.

  ‘Then there’s nothing to be done just yet.’

  Lou seemed disappointed. ‘You think not?’

  ‘Lou, you mustn’t be impatient. The world of publishing goes to sleep at this time of year and never properly wakes up again until the spring. But rest assured, my friend, when the time seems favourable, I shall certainly write some letters to contacts of mine in London. We’ll see if some of them might at least cast a critical eye over the manuscript.’

  ‘And I, in the meantime, shall undertake a few revisions,’ said Lou. ‘Just to ensure it is every bit as good as it can be.’

  ‘Capital!’ William beamed. ‘Well, then,’ he said. ‘Let’s drink to its success, shall we?’ He lifted his glass of whisky. ‘The Sea Cook,’ he said.

  Tom lifted his cordial. ‘Treasure Island,’ he insisted.

  Lloyd lifted his glass and opened his mouth to say something, but must have noted the glares he was getting from both Tom and Lou. He sighed, scowled, and shrugged his narrow shoulders. ‘To Treasure Island,’ he muttered and they all drank.

  Nine

  They sat and chatted and enjoyed their drinks which were replenished at regular intervals and eventually it grew late. Lou pulled a pocket watch from his waistcoat and announced that the hansom cab they’d booked would be arriving presently. They said their goodbyes to William and trooped out to the hallway, where servants were waiting to help them on with their coats. A maid opened the front door and sure enough, there was the cab, gliding to a halt in the dull glow of the gas lamps, the driver sitting up at the rear of the vehicle, heavily cloaked and hooded against the cold.

  ‘You two go ahead and get in,’ suggested Lou. ‘I just remembered something else.’ He turned back to have a last word with William who had come to the door to wave them off. ‘Before I forget, William, Tom told me that our old friend Deacon Brodie has had a pub named after him in Manchester, of all places!’

  ‘Really?’ William looked incredulous at this news. ‘I’m often there and I’ve never seen it. Whereabouts is it?’

  Tom hastily led Lloyd across the pavement to the cab, anxious to avoid any more awkward questions. He reached
up and opened the door, then waited politely while Lloyd got his skinny frame inside. Tom climbed in and settled himself on the seat opposite the boy.

  ‘I’m tired,’ complained Lloyd. ‘I wish Papa would hurry up.’

  ‘I’m sure he won’t be long,’ said Tom. It occurred to him then that the driver hadn’t spoken a word to them, so he tilted back his head to look at the closed hatch above him. ‘Mr Stevenson will just be a minute,’ he shouted.

  There was no reply. Indeed, the silence was so deep and so intense, that Tom suddenly had a powerful sense of foreboding. He made a move towards the open door of the cab, meaning to lean out and repeat the instruction, but at that moment it slammed shut in his face with a force that almost made him jump out of his skin. In the same instant, he heard a deep voice bellow, ‘Hah!’ There was the crack of a whip and the cab leapt forward with a suddenness that made Tom rock back in his seat.

  Through the window, he caught a glimpse of a bemused Lou, turning on the doorstep in surprise to look towards the cab as it sped away from the house, but an instant later the window blind shot downwards with what seemed like supernatural speed, cutting off Tom’s view entirely. A lock engaged with a loud clunk. ‘What the−? Hey, hold on a minute,’ bellowed Tom. ‘Wait for Mr Stevenson, he’s coming with us!’

  Again there was no answer. If anything, the speed of the cab increased, the fragile vehicle shuddering and shaking over the cobbles as though about to fall to pieces. Again, Tom heard the sound of a whip cracking on the frozen air and the coachman’s hoarse voice shouted, ‘Giddy up!’

  And Tom knew something was terribly wrong because that voice was all too familiar.

  Lloyd’s pale features stared at him in the gloom. ‘What’s going on?’ he cried. ‘Why aren’t we waiting for Papa?’

  Tom didn’t know what to tell him. He reached out to the blind and tried to unlatch it, but it seemed somehow clamped to the glass and he could get no more than a peek around the side of it at the rows of houses flashing by them as the horse, spurred on by the whip, stretched itself into a full gallop.