One for Sorrow by Philip Caveney

Author:Philip Caveney
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: edinburgh, crow boy, Seventeen Coffins
Publisher: Fledgling Press
Published: 2015-05-18T04:00:00+00:00

Twelve

Cat’s house in Lauriston Street was a grand affair, a lofty, grey stone mansion in the heart of the old town. Tom climbed the steps to the door and rang the bell. Now that the moment was close at hand, he felt strangely anxious. After all, the last time he’d seen her she’d been his age. Now she was an old woman. However things turned out, it was going to feel

very weird.

The door opened and a man in a tail coat and striped trousers stood there, gazing down at Tom with a grim expression on his face, as though he didn’t much like what he saw. ‘May I help you?’ he said, flatly.

‘Er, I’m here to see Cat . . . Catriona. I mean, Miss McCallum! My name is Tom Afflick.’

The reaction was dramatic. The man swung the door wide and ushered Tom inside. ‘If you’d be so good as to follow me, sir,’ he said. ‘I shall take you directly to her.’ He waited till Tom was inside then closed the door and led him along a hallway, a much wider, grander one than the Stevenson’s hired place. Through open doorways to his left and right, Tom glimpsed massive rooms, richly furnished with gilt chairs and tables, the walls hung with huge oil paintings. Cut glass chandeliers hung from the ceilings, reflecting the light from massive windows. Finally, they came to a door at the very end of the hall. The man knocked politely then turned the handle in one white-gloved hand and, holding the door open, he stepped aside and bowed his head, waiting for Tom to enter. Tom did as he was bid, feeling faintly embarrassed by the man’s politeness. He stepped into the room and the door closed behind him.

She was sitting in a chair reading a book, but she looked up in surprise as Tom entered and one hand flew to her mouth while the book slipped from her other hand and tumbled, forgotten, to the floor. She got to her feet then and Tom could see how much she had aged. Her hair, once long and blonde, was now as white as a fall of snow, tied back from her face, which was lined and creased by the passing years. But her eyes were just as he remembered them, keen and glittering with intelligence. Behind her, above a marble fireplace, hung her portrait, as she had looked in her fifties. Tom knew the picture well. The last time he’d seen it, it had been hanging in the National Museum of Scotland, above a glass case of Cat’s possessions and a brief history listing the various novels she had published. One particular story, that had never seen publication, was an alleged early science fiction novel called The Traveller In Time. A book she’d dedicated to Tom.

There was a long silence while they stood looking at each other. Then Tom felt that somebody needed to speak. ‘Hey, Cat,’ he said, affecting the broad Mancunian accent that he knew she loved ‘‘Ow yer doin’, chuck?’

Her eyes filled with tears.

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