The Piper's Tune by Jessica Stirling

instantly on her guard. ‘Why do you ask?’
    â€˜Tell me what you think of him.’
    â€˜Are you stuck on him?’
    â€˜No, but I think he’s stuck on me.’
    â€˜Really?’ Lindsay said. ‘What gives you that impression?’
    â€˜The way he behaves.’
    â€˜Affectionately?’
    â€˜He’s – he’s – forward. Very forward.’
    â€˜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.
    â€˜If you don’t want to tell me…’ Lindsay said.
    â€˜I don’t know how to put it.’
    â€˜It can’t be that bad.’
    â€˜He shows himself to me.’
    â€˜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.’
    â€˜How do you know?’
    â€˜I watch him.’
    â€˜ You watch him? ’
    â€˜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.’
    â€˜Precisely how does he show himself?’ Lindsay asked.
    â€˜He comes out of the bathroom wearing nothing but a towel.’
    â€˜Perhaps that’s what they do in Dublin.’
    â€˜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…’
    â€˜Loins,’ Lindsay suggested.
    â€˜Yes, loins.’
    â€˜Why don’t you ignore him?’
    â€˜I can’t.’
    â€˜Are you sure you want to?’
    â€˜Lindsay Franklin! How dare—’
    â€˜I’m sorry. Go on, please.’
    â€˜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—’
    â€˜Have you told your mama?’
    â€˜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.’
    â€˜When?’
    â€˜Tomorrow afternoon, after church. We’ll meet at the iron bridge in Kelvingrove a half-hour after lunch,’ Lindsay said.
    â€˜Good idea.’ Cissie sniffed. ‘You do believe me, Lindsay, don’t you?’
    â€˜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