Alex Gray - The Riverman

‘You’re staring at me, Philip,’ Catherine said evenly. ‘What is it? Have I a dirty mark on my nose?’

Philip blushed and hung his head but was rescued from the moment by the waiter coming to take their order.

‘Shall I be mother?’ Catherine asked lightly. Philip nodded as he watched her pour their tea into deep earthenware bowls. The steam rose, making him shiver as he realized how cold it was inside the room. But then he’d been feeling the cold ever since his return.

‘About Dad,’ Philip began. ‘He didn’t really go on a binge did he?’

The woman opposite shook her head and he was pained to see a single tear trickle down her cheek. ‘Cath?’ he said, not quite sure what to do.

‘I’m sorry, Philip. It’s just horrible talking about it,’ she sniffed. ‘No, I don’t think your dad ever touched the bottle again,’ she continued. ‘In fact I remember he was drinking orange juice on the night that …’

‘The night that he died,’ Philip finished quietly. ‘Cath, what really happened? Do you know? Nobody’s telling me anything,’ he burst out suddenly. ‘I’m not a wee boy any more and I’ve a right to know what’s been going on. Haven’t I?’

Once more he felt his fingers being held in hers.

‘Of course you do, dear, of course you do,’ she murmured soothingly. ‘At the moment the police think that Duncan was killed by somebody, but I’m not convinced they’re right,’ she rushed on, ‘I think it must have been a terrible accident. Don’t you?’ she added, looking directly into his eyes.

‘Well, yes, I suppose so … I mean who would’ve wanted to kill my dad?’ Philip felt the threat of tears and pulled his hands away to fumble in his pocket for a hanky. Dad had always made him carry one when he was a child and the habit had stuck.

Remembering his dad’s face and the way he used to run his fingers through his thatch of hair made Philip bury his face in the handkerchief and choke back a sob. For a moment he closed his eyes, then he turned aside and blew noisily into the crumpled hanky.

‘Sorry,’ he mumbled, glancing across at his godmother.

Catherine Devoy was shaking her head, her eyes bright with tears. ‘No need to be,’ she whispered. ‘If we can’t cry now, when can we?’ She smiled tremulously at the boy.

Philip sipped his tea then cupped the bowl in his hands, blowing across the surface to cool it down.

‘Too hot?’

‘A wee bit. But it’s better without milk, isn’t it?’

Catherine shrugged. She’d always liked her tea with a good splash of milk, even Earl Grey. But Duncan had been a purist about tea, she remembered. Like father, like son, she thought sadly.

‘Aunty Cath,’ the boy began and hesitated.

Catherine steeled herself for more probing questions but was surprised when he asked, ‘What shall I do now I’m back? Shouldn’t I be coming into the office?’

The woman simply stared at him, a look of utter blankness on her face. It was only natural that Philip Forbes would want to begin his career as an accountant. It had been Duncan’s intention for years to bring the boy into the firm and none of them had objected, especially when he’d obtained such a good degree. On the contrary, all the partners had agreed it would be right to continue a thread of the family line. So why had she forgotten about this?

‘Aunty Cath?’ The boy prompted her. ‘What do you think?’

Catherine Devoy swallowed hard. This was going to be difficult.

‘I think,’ she began gently, ‘that you should look elsewhere for employment, Philip.’

‘But why? Forbes Macgregor was Dad’s firm and his father’s and grandfather’s before him!’ Philip’s eyes were angry and puzzled.

‘Things have changed, Philip,’ the woman began. ‘Listen,’ she said firmly, ‘you’ve always trusted me, haven’t you?’

The boy nodded.

‘Well, I think you might as well know that things aren’t great in the accountancy world right now and Forbes Macgregor may not weather the storm that some of the financial pundits tell us is coming.’ She leaned forward and lowered her voice. ‘This is absolutely confidential, do you understand, Philip? Word of this in the financial press would be disastrous for the firm.’

She watched the boy as he sat back, frowning. This was hard for him to accept. And, anyway, did he believe her? A slight shake of his head told Catherine that he was stunned by this news but the look he gave her showed more supplication than scepticism.

‘What should I do, then?’

Catherine sat back, relieved. He was accepting her at her word as he always did, thank God. ‘Go into industry. And spread your wings, Philip. No need to stay in Glasgow to work. There are greater opportunities south of the border. Or beyond,’ she told him, trying to sound enthusiastic. ‘And,’ she breathed hard, hating herself for playing this trump card, ‘it’s what your dad would have wanted you to do.’

‘But what about Mum? We’ve not even had a funeral yet.’

‘No need to worry your mother, Philip. Just begin to look in the papers, register with a few of the better agencies. I’ll even see what I can find out on the grapevine, shall I?’

The boy nodded slowly. ‘Okay. I suppose.’ His mouth was turned down in a sulk.

‘Philip?’

He shrugged. ‘Bit of a surprise, that’s all. Suppose I should’ve kept in touch more with what’s been happening.’

‘Not many people are aware of all this,’ she answered him grimly. ‘Take my word for it.’

‘Right. And thanks,’ he said, his young face looking up at her. ‘Knew I could trust you to sort things out. Dad always said you were the best brain in the place.’ He smiled.

Catherine Devoy returned her godson’s smile but inwardly a voice was crying out, Dear God! What have we done to you, Philip?

Philip sat back on his heels and sighed. They weren’t in any of the likely places. He’d tried his own room and the downstairs study but nothing had come to hand. The certificates had been put into a blue folder, he remembered. He’d been so certain they’d be in his desk drawer but when he’d opened it everything was neat and tidy, but there was no folder. Okay, he’d been away for months and Mum was a stickler for keeping things in order but surely she wouldn’t have shifted all his SCE certificates and his degree parchment?

‘We’ll need to have this framed.’ His dad’s words came so suddenly to mind that Philip found himself fighting back the tears. It seemed just like yesterday they’d all been sitting around a table in Stravaigin toasting his health and his future. What sort of future would he have now? The bitter thought dried his eyes and he stood up, looking down the length of his father’s study. He ran a finger over the bookshelf behind the huge oak desk. The resulting smear of grey bore testament to the fact that nobody had been in here to dust in weeks, not even their cleaning lady. Dad’s old desk looked exactly the same as it always had, the family photos angled so he could glance at them as he worked. Philip slipped into the chair, drawn by a sudden urge to see what his father had seen, feel what he might have felt as he’d sat here night after night, working on stuff for the office.

He’d never heard his dad complaining about the hours he’d put in: never heard him moaning about work at all. Forbes Macgregor had been such a big part of his life, all their lives, that it seemed wrong that Philip wouldn’t be continuing the family tradition of working in the elegant red stone building by the Clyde. He stared into space, willing some vision of his father to come to him then, to explain whatever had happened, but all Philip could see was his godmother’s face smiling at him.