Between Friends Page 10

  ‘Martin Hunter, sir.’ The butler uttered his name as though it was something quite offensive but his merry faced master cared nought for that and moved forward, holding out his hand agreeably.

  ‘Hunter! How punctual and how very good of you to call!’

  Martin was quite non-plussed for was he not this man’s employee and what else was he to do if his master called except run hastily to his side, but he was not yet aware of the special qualities of naïve friendliness and old world gallantry which Robert Hemingway had possessed since he was a boy. Not in his sixties as Martin had originally thought but seventy-three now, he was the younger son of the great Charles Hemingway himself, once one of Liverpool’s greatest shipowners and the brother of the famous, some said infamous, Lacy Osborne, a shipping magnate in her own right. Robert had inherited his elder brother’s share of the shipping line and also this house, on his brother’s death. He was himself retired, the business run now by his son, another Charles.

  He was in his last years and there would not be many more, he was the first to admit and in them he had discovered a passion for the motor car. His wife said indulgently that he was in his dotage, his second childhood and she washed her hands of his foolishness. They had been married for over forty years and in that time his tranquil and kindly outlook on life had led them through a contented and uneventful marriage.

  ‘Is this the young man, then, Mr Hemingway?’ she said, studying Martin from the tips of his well-polished boots to the arrogant set of his dark head. He was well turned out, neat and clean, but his thick, straight hair fell in a defiant tumble across his broad forehead. He had cycled from Great George Square, speeding as fast as the pedals would go round to get to Silverdale by ‘first thing’! He was not sure when exactly that might be so best be on the safe side and at half past eight he had knocked on the kitchen door, snatching his cap from his head as he did so.

  ‘Good God, man, Master’s not even up yet!’ he was told by a pert kitchen maid. She eyed him appreciatively though, liking the set of his broad shoulders and the brown depths of his long lashed eyes. His young body was firm and hard and straight and yet already it had a kind of indolent grace which signalled his complete masculinity and his own knowledge of it, and what’s more, it’s impact on the opposite sex. His eyes warmed her, admiring her rounded prettiness and despite his errand, or perhaps because of it and the importance of this moment, his amber skin seemed to glow with life. He smiled and the corners of his mouth lifted and the maid caught her breath, quite enthralled by the curving delight it promised. His teeth gleamed for a moment between his lips and his expression seemed to say if only he had the time what pleasures they could share, then an elderly woman had called sharply, enquiring who was at the door and the maid stepped back regretfully.

  He sat where he was told and ate gratefully the bacon ‘butty’ pushed roughly but amiably into his hand and watched the early morning preparation for the running of Silverdale swirl smoothly into action. There seemed to be more servants here than there were in all of the houses in Great George Square put together and all under the direction of a black-gowned woman he had first thought to be the mistress.

  And the snotty-nosed chap who ran her was, it appeared, the butler and a more miserable bugger he had yet to meet, he secretly told himself. He watched as the man reduced same poor little skivvy to tears and longed to get up and defend her as he would their Meggie but as soon as the butler and the housekeeper left the kitchen to enjoy their own breakfast, the atmosphere relaxed and it was almost like being at home. Someone whistled and there was laughter and the young maid who had let him in sidled up to him saucily, asking questions about why the master wanted him. He answered truthfully that he did not know. He said nothing of his hopes!

  ‘Well then, Hunter,’ Mr Hemingway said genially, rubbing his hands together with every sign of satisfaction and looking him up and down as his wife had done. ‘Now this is Mrs Hemingway …’

  ‘Ma’am.’ Martin inclined his head respectfully but looked directly at Alice Hemingway as he did so and old as she was she could not help responding to the attractiveness of his smile. There was no boldness in it, not for her, since Martin knew his place but it had a boyish charm she was quick to recognise as a woman and she smiled back.

  ‘… and this is Martin Hunter, my dear. He’s the young man who got me going yesterday. D’you remember me telling you?’

  He sat down but did not motion Martin to do the same. Martin stood quietly and waited. ‘Martin Hunter?’ Mrs Hemingway murmured. ‘Oh yes, and where do you come from then Martin Hunter?’

  ‘From Great George Square, ma’am,’ he replied politely.

  ‘Ah yes, my husband told me that. You work as … as boot-boy, is that it?’

  ‘No, no, Mrs Hemingway … I told you, he’s odd job man …’

  ‘Is there a difference, dear?’

  Robert Hemingway sighed and looked at Martin.

  ‘Well yes, I think so, my dear and I’m sure Hunter would say so. Not many boots to clean at an emigrant lodging house, eeh, Hunter?’ He laughed and winked and slapped his thigh and Martin warmed to him. ‘Not part of your duties at all, I’d say?’

  ‘No sir.’

  ‘Well, I don’t see why not,’ Mrs Hemingway interjected, then stood up suddenly and made a little sideways sortie to a springing growth of Bougainvillaea with dark green leaves and flowers of cerise, scarlet and deep pink. With a tiny pair of pruning shears which she took from a deep pocket in her morning gown she delicately removed a leaf, dropping it carefully into the same pocket.

  Her husband watched her fondly as though they had all the time in the world.

  Martin waited patiently.

  ‘I meant where did he come from before that, Mr Hemingway?’ she went on as she returned to her chair.

  The old gentleman turned smilingly to Martin.

  ‘Hunter?’ he questioned.

  ‘I was in the orphanage, sir, until I was twelve.’

  ‘The orphanage, oh dear, oh dear, dear!’

  Mrs Hemingway stared at him, then sighed deeply, shaking her head at the apparent wickedness of the world.

  Mr Hemingway waited for a moment politely, to see if she had anything else to say, then returned his attention to Martin.

  ‘Now then, where was I?’ he said briskly.

  ‘If you don’t know then I am sure we don’t, do we Hunter?’ Mrs Hemingway smiled engagingly.

  Martin was just beginning to think the two delightful but dotty old people had forgotten what it was Mr Hemingway had summoned him for when the old gentleman leaned forward and said abruptly.

  ‘And are you content with that, Hunter?’

  ‘I beg your pardon, sir?’

  ‘Does your work give you satisfaction?’

  ‘Well … I’m not … unhappy, sir, but …’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Well … I …’

  ‘There is something else you would rather be doing?’

  ‘Yes sir!’

  ‘And what is that?’

  ‘Motor cars, sir!’

  ‘I thought so.’ The old man leaned back in his chair satisfied.

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Six-thirty tomorrow morning then, Hunter. I’ll arrange for someone to replace you at the emigrant house. Report to Andrew. He’ll show you the ropes for a few days and then we’ll get down to it. Once you’ve the hang of the steering you’ll have no difficulty. It’s just a question of practice. Of course my son and I will have your progress monitored but I’m perfectly certain there will be no problems. A chappie we know has been to a few races in his day. France, Germany, Italy, America so he can recognise a decent driver when he sees one. He raced in the ‘Gordon Bennett’ last year in Ireland and came second so he knows what he’s about. And your knowledge of engines will give you an enormous advantage. We’ve been keen to get in on it for a few years now, ever since it began but of course, we’re both too old.’

  He chuckled and his wife raised her
eyebrows and rolled her eyes heavenwards. ‘… so we decided the only thing to do was to get our own man,’ he continued. ‘Put him through his paces in the Isle of Man, or perhaps Ireland and then see what he can do against the Americans at Daytona Beach.’

  He leaned forward, apparently unaware of the rigidity and death-white face of his guest.

  ‘I was impressed by your confidence and expertise yesterday, young man and it seemed to me you have a natural flair for the motor car. It’s new yet in terms of years but we’ve watched it grow, my son and I and we’ve learned to spot a man who’s as keen as we are and who knows what he’s about and it appeared to me that you are just such a man. A bit young but that’s to the good. You have time to learn and your enthusiasm will see you win, I’m positive and that’s what we want, a winner …!’

  He stopped suddenly.

  ‘What’s the matter, Hunter? Have I said … my dear chap, you look quite … see, Mrs Hemingway, ring the bell and get Ferguson to fetch a brandy. I think the poor fellow’s about to swoon …’

  He didn’t quite know how he cycled the half mile along the meandering driveway from the house to the gates which led into Aigburth Road. He had to contain his jubilation until he got there for it would not do for the gardeners who worked about the lawns and flower beds to think he had lost his wits but the moment he was out of earshot of the gatekeeper’s lodge he put his feet on the handlebars of the machine, raised his arms in the air and yelled his joy to the meadowlark which hung above him in the sky. A thrush which was feeding on the berries of a rowan tree beyond the hedge flew wildly for cover and a flock of sheep, browsing the fields of Jericho Farm scattered, their heads up and wildly bobbing but he was not even aware of them, nor of the open-mouthed astonishment of those he passed on the country road.

  He’d done it! He’d done it! He’d done it! Oh dear Lord, at last he was to work with the thing he loved best in the world, at what he knew best, at what he was best at. The skill he possessed was to be used and in a way that even he had scarcely dreamed of! He was to start tomorrow morning with Mr Hemingway and when he had learned to drive – and that wouldn’t take him long, best part of five minutes, he reckoned – they were going to try him out as a racing driver. He, Martin Hunter, was going to be tested against men like S. F. Edge and Charles Jarrott, go to France, Germany and when he was ready, to Daytona Beach in America to race against the great Barney Oldfield!

  Mr Hemingway had explained, when Martin had recovered somewhat from his first paralysing shock that he must be prepared to work in other capacities around the garages in which were housed the Hemingways’ growing fleet of automobiles. He was to look after them, keep them maintained to the highest peak of perfection an internal combustion engine can achieve, but whilst he was doing this he was to be taken to any track which was available to him and given a chance to show if he was capable of joining that select few who were simply called ‘the fastest men on earth’!

  He would need plenty of practice but that would be no problem, Mr Hemingway said with the enthusiasm of a boy. He and Charles – his son, he explained – were keen to match their new machine against the best the racing world had to offer and if Martin lived up to expectations he did not see why they should not have a good chance of winning a race or two! Show the world what the Lancastrians were made of! It wasn’t only great ships that came out of Liverpool, eh Hunter?

  To the Hemingways, both father and son, it was a hobby, a pastime new and thrilling but to Martin it was his life’s dream and not to be taken lightly, as they did. This was the opportunity he had been waiting for, striving for! The start of the work he had been cast on this earth to do and by God he was ready to start doing it! He’d show them! He’d not let them down! He’d win every bloody race they put him in! He’d make the name of Hemingway as famous in the motoring world as it was in the sphere of shipping and with it would rise the name of Hunter!

  Oh dear God … dear sweet Jesus … it had begun!

  Meg thought she would swoon with the excitement of it all at first! Martin was like a candle … no … one of those new exciting electric lights which were beginning to appear in all the smart shops and the homes of the wealthy. Brilliant, unable to stop talking, unable to sit down or even stand still, he lit up the kitchen with his magnetic presence and Mrs Whitley said she was all of a ‘do-dah’ and she’d have to have a sip of stout to steady her and would Martin be a good lad and slip round to the ‘Fiddlers’ …

  It was then, as she mentioned the ‘Fiddlers’, without warning she began to weep and the three of them became as still as animals which scent a trap and are helpless to avoid it. Was it not at this precise moment, years ago, that they had first set eyes on the weeping woman and in such a manner and tone of voice she had sent a young and defiantly brave Martin for that first jug of stout and now, now it was ending and Mrs Whitley’s tears said she did not know how she was to do without them! The first was to be off and soon it would be the other two and she was heartbroken. They had not thought, any of them, as they exulted over Martin’s good fortune, that this was the moment when the ‘three of ’em’ were to become two, then perhaps only one as they all went their separate ways. Mrs Whitley’s grief struck at their elation, crumbling it to fragments as their young hearts considered it. All these years, their eyes said to one another and did we ever think the day would come when we would have to part and could they bear it, they silently asked each other?

  Emm stared from one to the other, her face which had shrieked its joy with the rest, slipping into bewilderment for where, suddenly, had it gone? One minute high jinks and laughter, the next, tears!

  Martin moved jerkily, his eyes tearing themselves away from those of Meg and Tom. He reached in a fumbling fashion for the door knob, awkward and anxious to regain the high euphoria of moments ago, resentful suddenly that it should have been taken from him. He was young and unable yet to cope with his emotions and his instinct was to run, to run away from what he could not easily manage.

  ‘Right, Mrs Whitley, I’ll not be a minute.’ His voice was deep, unconcerned he would have them believe, doing its best to be normal but his eyes were strangely blurred as though something dimmed their usual soft and depthless brown.

  ‘Alright, lad and don’t you get lost,’ Tom said, trying to make a joke, his voice only a fraction from cracking. ‘… and make sure you get the right change, now.’

  Meg put her hand to her mouth, covering it with shaking fingers for were they not the very words Mrs Whitley had used so many, many times in the last four years and now she could not bear to hear them spoken for were they not the symbol of their united lives and was it not to end with this last night together!

  ‘Oh don’t … don’t, Tom … don’t joke, please … it’s the last …’

  ‘Now then, Meggie …!’ Martin moved forward as though her distress had released some maturity in him, some strong and protective emotion which would not allow him to turn away as he had intended. ‘Don’t say that! I’ll not have it! Bloody hell, it’s only up the road … to start with, anyway and later … I’ll be home as often …’

  ‘Of course you will! Of course you bloody will!’ Tom was quite overcome and could do no more than repeat the same words over and over again, moving in his turn towards Meg but she turned away and began to carefully re-arrange the crockery which was set out for their meal, moving the salt and pepper a little closer to the centre of the table, smoothing the white cloth though it was unwrinkled, straightening the already straight cutlery.

  ‘I know, I know! Take no notice of me,’ she said, but her voice trembled as she bent her head, her spirit oppressed and joyless.

  ‘Nor me, lad!’ Mrs Whitley heaved herself to her feet, wiping her eyes on her apron. ‘Daft beggars we are! Why, you’ll be in and out of this kitchen all the time, I’ll be bound. Sick to death of you we’ll be, eeh, Meggie?’

  Meg felt the silent, waiting presence of Martin at her back. She knew she must say something to bring back to him
the rejoicing which was his due. She must not spoil for him what was the greatest day of his life with her own sorrow and squaring her shoulders she took the first step on the path which was to lead her from the careless selfishness which is the mark of the young to the hard won generosity that comes with maturity.

  ‘Not half!’ she managed. ‘He’ll be up here after those pasties of yours if for nothing else!’

  ‘Which reminds me,’ Cook said, cheering up at the thought of food. ‘I’d best get a few in the oven for you take with you.’

  ‘Mrs Whitley!’ Martin was laughing now, immensely relieved the tears had stopped for like most men he had not the slightest notion of how to deal with them. ‘They will feed me up there, you know!’

  ‘Not like the grub you’re used to, my lad,’ Mrs Whitley said firmly. ‘You’re still growing and you need feeding up. Now promise me if you get hungry you’ll come home for a bit of decent food … promise …?’

  Home!

  Martin moved across the kitchen. Mrs Whitley had her back to him, busy as a bee as her silent tears fell again into the bowl in which she was ready to prepare the pastry for the meat pasties for her lad. Gently, his action as loving as a son with his mother, he put his arms about her, turning her until her trembling cap fitted beneath his chin.

  ‘I promise faithfully I’ll be home every chance I get.’ He hugged the plump little woman awkwardly in his young man’s arms but his eyes were on Meg as he spoke.

  The rest had gone to bed, Mrs Whitley hiccoughing her way up the stairs on her last glass of stout for she had felt the need for a bit extra that night ‘to make her sleep’ she said.

  They sat together before the dying fire and no-one spoke. Tom lounged as he always did, long legs sprawled out before him, hands deep in his pockets, his eyes half closed as he stared into the fire. It was as though he saw pictures in its brightness, pictures of something serious for his usual light-hearted expression was missing and his young face was sombre with his own heavy thoughts.

  Meg sat on the rug, her back against the chair in which Martin slouched. He watched her as her hand idly played with a strand of her own bright copper hair, twisting it in a glowing curl about her finger. It sprang to life beneath her hand and his heart moved painfully with the sadness of this moment.