Russell, father.”
The son’s interruption makes Dr Quinn stare from one man to the other as though wondering where the next voice might come from. “An engineer? That’s very fine. The world needs engineers. Was that your father’s profession too?”
“My father built his fortune from arms factories in Germany.”
A stunned blinking of Dr Quinn’s grey eyes. All he can manage after a moment is, “I see.”
“But you’ve broken with your father, haven’t you?” John asks uncertainly.
Pierre nods. “You could say I broke with everything.” He looks straight at Dr Quinn. “Would you prefer me to leave, sir?”
“Of course not.”
“I can’t help the way my father became rich. I’ve disowned him.”
The doctor pensively rubs the indentations of his crystal glass. “Very sad. Though under the circumstances, clearly appropriate.” He again looks from one man to the other. “Johnny, how did you two meet? How long have you been acquainted?”
“A while,” Pierre answers quickly. There is a palpable air of something unstated; John does nothing to contradict a lie he finds strangely pleasant.
“Pierre was interned as an alien.”
The doctor’s eyebrows sink with sorrowful understanding. So that’s it: prison-mates. Best not discuss further. “You’re having tea with us?”
“If I may.”
“Jessie should have sorted it by now, let’s go through.”
In the dining room the table is set, the meal is ready.
“This looks wonderful,” Pierre says approvingly, making Jessie blush as she comes from the kitchen with a serving ladle.
“If I’d known we’d have a guest…” She sits down without completing her sentence, toying instead with her hair.
“Will you write a wee note for mother tonight?” Dr Quinn asks, and she nods. He explains to Pierre, “My wife’s in a sanatorium. Her lungs, you understand. My eyes aren’t as good as they used to be so Jessie takes care of letters.”
“I wish your wife good health, sir.”
“We pray for her.”
Jessie crosses herself; no one else cares to repeat the gesture. Pierre is invited to serve himself the stew steaming in a casserole whose size emphasises the frugality of the contents. He takes a spoonful.
“Go on, lad,” the doctor urges. Slices of buttered bread lie on a plate beside a pot of tea. John Quinn looks at his sister and sees how she stares at the stranger, as much in awe as John himself. Taking a piece of bread, Pierre appears perfectly at ease.
“Are you Parisian?” Jessie asks.
“I was.”
“It must be so beautiful. Will you go back?”
“I think not.”
She, too, catches the seductive aroma of secrecy. Surely a woman, she guesses. “Do you like Scotland?”
“Certainly.”
“What in particular?”
Pierre smiles. “Not the weather, of course. But the landscape, the colours.”
“The people?”
“Yes, very friendly and welcoming. And the history.”
“I love history,” she says quickly. “When I was at school it was always my favourite subject.”
“But we learned so little of it,” John interrupts. “Real history, I mean. It was only kings and queens and battles and treaties.”
His sister’s mystified. “What else could it have been?”
“The lives of ordinary working folk.”
She laughs. “We know enough about that already.”
“I don’t know that you do.”
Dr Quinn intervenes. “Stop bickering, you two.”
“It’s just a discussion,” John says. “Pierre, you agree with me, don’t you? The history books are written by the ruling class and only tell their side of the story.”
All look to Pierre for an answer. He pouts thoughtfully as he considers the question. “There is always another side to everything.”
“Exactly!” says John.
“Even in the stories of the ruling class there may be something worth hearing.” He looks at Jessie while he speaks, and John begins to wonder if his new friend is really a socialist after all.
There is a loud knock at the front door;
The son’s interruption makes Dr Quinn stare from one man to the other as though wondering where the next voice might come from. “An engineer? That’s very fine. The world needs engineers. Was that your father’s profession too?”
“My father built his fortune from arms factories in Germany.”
A stunned blinking of Dr Quinn’s grey eyes. All he can manage after a moment is, “I see.”
“But you’ve broken with your father, haven’t you?” John asks uncertainly.
Pierre nods. “You could say I broke with everything.” He looks straight at Dr Quinn. “Would you prefer me to leave, sir?”
“Of course not.”
“I can’t help the way my father became rich. I’ve disowned him.”
The doctor pensively rubs the indentations of his crystal glass. “Very sad. Though under the circumstances, clearly appropriate.” He again looks from one man to the other. “Johnny, how did you two meet? How long have you been acquainted?”
“A while,” Pierre answers quickly. There is a palpable air of something unstated; John does nothing to contradict a lie he finds strangely pleasant.
“Pierre was interned as an alien.”
The doctor’s eyebrows sink with sorrowful understanding. So that’s it: prison-mates. Best not discuss further. “You’re having tea with us?”
“If I may.”
“Jessie should have sorted it by now, let’s go through.”
In the dining room the table is set, the meal is ready.
“This looks wonderful,” Pierre says approvingly, making Jessie blush as she comes from the kitchen with a serving ladle.
“If I’d known we’d have a guest…” She sits down without completing her sentence, toying instead with her hair.
“Will you write a wee note for mother tonight?” Dr Quinn asks, and she nods. He explains to Pierre, “My wife’s in a sanatorium. Her lungs, you understand. My eyes aren’t as good as they used to be so Jessie takes care of letters.”
“I wish your wife good health, sir.”
“We pray for her.”
Jessie crosses herself; no one else cares to repeat the gesture. Pierre is invited to serve himself the stew steaming in a casserole whose size emphasises the frugality of the contents. He takes a spoonful.
“Go on, lad,” the doctor urges. Slices of buttered bread lie on a plate beside a pot of tea. John Quinn looks at his sister and sees how she stares at the stranger, as much in awe as John himself. Taking a piece of bread, Pierre appears perfectly at ease.
“Are you Parisian?” Jessie asks.
“I was.”
“It must be so beautiful. Will you go back?”
“I think not.”
She, too, catches the seductive aroma of secrecy. Surely a woman, she guesses. “Do you like Scotland?”
“Certainly.”
“What in particular?”
Pierre smiles. “Not the weather, of course. But the landscape, the colours.”
“The people?”
“Yes, very friendly and welcoming. And the history.”
“I love history,” she says quickly. “When I was at school it was always my favourite subject.”
“But we learned so little of it,” John interrupts. “Real history, I mean. It was only kings and queens and battles and treaties.”
His sister’s mystified. “What else could it have been?”
“The lives of ordinary working folk.”
She laughs. “We know enough about that already.”
“I don’t know that you do.”
Dr Quinn intervenes. “Stop bickering, you two.”
“It’s just a discussion,” John says. “Pierre, you agree with me, don’t you? The history books are written by the ruling class and only tell their side of the story.”
All look to Pierre for an answer. He pouts thoughtfully as he considers the question. “There is always another side to everything.”
“Exactly!” says John.
“Even in the stories of the ruling class there may be something worth hearing.” He looks at Jessie while he speaks, and John begins to wonder if his new friend is really a socialist after all.
There is a loud knock at the front door;
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