Between Friends Page 13

  But Meg could and would! Tom had gone on an errand for Mr Lloyd, she said, and would not be back until later but she’d go like a shot if Mrs Whitley would allow it! Give her a minute to get her hat and coat, and how on earth had he managed it, and was he sure it was alright with Mr Hemingway, she didn’t want Martin to lose his fine job and ‘Oh Lord’ … goggles … she must wear goggles!

  ‘It’s alright with Mr Hemingway, Meg, honest. This is Mr Charles’ car, his old Vauxhall and he said I could take it out for the afternoon.’

  It didn’t look old to Meg. It looked brand new, in fact, shining there in the sunshine. It was like a golden beam of sunlight itself, all yellow with bright brass lamps and even the spokes of the wheels gleaming like daffodils. There were two black leather seats side by side and when she climbed up she could smell the lovely smell of them and they were warm from the rays of the sun.

  She saw Cook’s white face at the window, drawn there by her dread, her eyes staring and her hand to her mouth. In Cook’s mind it was possible for a man to go about in one of those dreadful things – just! Men understood such intricate contrivances but surely to God this was the last she would see of their Meggie for no woman could survive such an ordeal!

  But their youthful faces were so alike, so full of sparkle and zest Mrs Whitley was quite overcome and retired to her chair with Emm at her heels.

  ‘Them two’ was all she could say, quite tearfully, but Emm knew what she meant!

  Martin rotated the starting handle.

  ‘Is the hand brake on, our Meg?’ he shouted cheerfully, for he had explained a hundred times to her the workings of the handbrake.

  ‘Which one’s that?’ Her reply was fearful for what did she know of what seemed like a dozen gauges, dials, knobs and levers.

  ‘Never mind.’ He ran smartly round to the driver’s side and peered inside the machine, just beside the steering wheel.

  ‘Yes, it’s on. We don’t want to run away, do we, not on your first trip!’

  ‘Oh no!’ Her eyes were huge and brilliant with excitement.

  ‘Now then, see this switch on the dashboard?’

  ‘Yes,’ she breathed and Martin was quite bewitched with the way she hung on his every word. It was not often he had Meg’s undivided and admiring attention. She liked the limelight too much herself!

  ‘Well, I’m going to give the crank a few turns and I want you to move it – it’s called the magneto switch – to the “on” position, see?’

  ‘Yes,’ she breathed again.

  ‘We don’t want to flood the carburettor, do we?’

  ‘Oh no, Martin.’

  They were off at last and Martin honked the horn and went round the square a few times until everyone came out to see what the commotion was about, just as they had when the ‘three of ’em’ had set off on their bicycles. Meg sat perfectly still, one hand on the side of the open motor car, the other on Martin’s arm. The wind blew in her face and the movement, the speed at which they went took her breath away, but never in all her life had she experienced such … such rapture. She had thought the bicycles to be the pinnacle of all her young dreams, the means by which she would fulfill them but this … this was like … like being a bird, she thought. Far distant and apart from the people who crawled along the pavement on either side of them. Through her goggles she peered at them pityingly and felt the smooth shudder of the engine beneath her reach the very heart of her and fill it with joy. She was not cold for there was a certain amount of heat coming from the engine, and from what Martin explained was the gearbox at the back.

  Martin turned to grin at her, his teeth incredibly white in his amber tinted face. ‘What d’you think then?’ he shouted into the wind.

  She was unable to speak but through the eyepiece of the goggles he saw her wide eyes glow with an emotion which he knew was the one he experienced whenever he was in or about the machines he loved, and suddenly he felt that curious sensation in his chest which she had awakened in him several times in the past. He turned again to study her, narrowly missing a horse and carriage, the irate driver of which shook his fist at him. He had not really noticed before except in the most casual way but she really had become extraordinarily pretty, sitting there with her hair which the sun had turned to fire, snatched out of its pins and blowing in curly tendrils about her ears and neck. Her mouth was parted in an enchanted smile and her eyes were that familiar deep and golden brown he had known since childhood, the colour they turned when she was excited. She was looking about her and then at him as if he were the King himself, as though he had just presented her with the most wonderful gift she had ever had, and he found he liked the sensation.

  She pressed his arm and he felt a small thrill of masculine pride for everywhere they went people turned to look and it gave a chap a big kick, not just to be driving a motor car which was a rare thing in itself but to have a pretty girl by his side as he did it! The more he looked at her the prettier he realised she was but what on earth had got in to him, he thought. She was only their Meg, his little ‘sister’ and a damned nuisance at times, still she did look grand sitting there beside him!

  They drove out of Liverpool towards Aigburth and on to Garston through villages which sprang to life as they clattered through. They turned away from the river at Garston thundering along the open country road which was bordered with high banks of marigolds and cowslip. They were stopped several times by animals. Farmers were unused to motor cars on what they considered the natural footpath from farmyard to field, and a herd of cows was one of the most common hazards the motorist must deal with. The animals jostled one another to get a better look at this peculiar device in their midst until Meg became alarmed and begged Martin to drive on but the look on the cowherd’s face was enough to assure him they would be ill-advised to do so until the animals had passed by!

  At the junction where Rose Lane ran into Allerton Lane they came to Beechwood, a favourite place for their cycling excursions though as Meg declared admiringly it took a lot longer to get there on the tandem. Martin stopped the motor car on a grass verge.

  ‘We’ll let her cool off here, Meggie,’ he said importantly, ‘then we’ll have to make our way back, I’m sorry to say.’

  ‘Don’t be sorry, Martin. It’s been the most wonderful, wonderful afternoon and such a lovely surprise.’

  ‘I thought you’d like it,’ he said and then wondered why he had. He was having some strange thoughts today but somehow he was immensely pleased with her pleasure!

  They sauntered across the grass verge and into the shade beneath the trees. The path was insubstantial, obviously not much used and on either side as far as the eye could see was a hazed, floating mist of bluebells. They were dense beneath every tree, clustering about Meg’s skirt and she drew in her breath in delight. The sun shone through almost transparent leaves, sparking green splashes where it touched, shading them to a darker green on the lower branches. Forest birds hovered above the dazzling carpet of blue and green and an early bumble bee jostled clumsily about the lovely swathe of wild flowers.

  There was birdsong though neither Meg nor Martin could identify them for they were city dwellers and could scarce tell a pigeon from a gull, but the notes were sweet and there was an air of expectancy, of hushed calm as though the day waited for something exciting which was about to happen.

  ‘It’s funny without Tom,’ Meg said abruptly and for a reason Martin could not understand he felt a twinge of annoyance and he frowned.

  They had turned now, walking slowly back in the direction of the automobile and they both were silent. Meg sensed the change in Martin, his sudden withdrawal from her but for the life of her she could not understand why. He was strange sometimes. One moment he would be laughing, teasing, talking up a head of steam about the seventy-four things which interested him and in which she was expected to take an undivided interest, the next he was off in some daydream in which no-one was allowed to follow. She could sense the tension in him now, the build up
to something he wanted to say, or do, but was not sure about. He would tell her when he was ready.

  They were about to climb up into the motor. Meg was an old hand now she felt and she confidently adjusted her goggles before putting her foot on the high step but again Martin’s manner drew her gaze to him. He was looking at her, almost sadly and yet his eyes were glowing with a deep brown excitement and his mouth twisted on what could have been a smile or a tightening of pain.

  ‘What is it, Martin?’ Her voice was low.

  ‘Well, I wasn’t going to tell you … not yet …’

  ‘Go on, I won’t tell anyone if it’s a secret.’

  ‘No … it’s not that … it’s just … well …’

  ‘Oh for God’s sake, Martin, tell me.’

  With a shout which raised the birds from the trees and the cows from their buttercups he yelled: ‘I’m going to America, Meggie.’ His face was ecstatic and caught up in his rapture, Meg began to jump about like an excited child.

  ‘When, when?’ she pleaded to know and taking his hands in hers she began a dance in the dusty lane, and it was several minutes before he could speak coherently.

  ‘I’m going to race, can you believe it? I’m going to race the “Hemingway Flyer”!’

  ‘The Hemingway Flyer!’

  ‘Yes, in Florida, America …’

  ‘… America …’

  ‘Can you believe it?’ His voice was hushed now, almost humble in the wonder of it.

  ‘Oh Martin …!’

  Chapter Nine

  THEY WERE SITTING one on either side of the pantingly hot fire with Emm on her low tuffet between them when the front door bell rang.

  Meg and Tom and Emm had eaten the steak and kidney pie Meg had cooked earlier that day, relishing the delicious taste which, thanks to Mrs Whitley who had taught her how, she put into all the dishes she cooked. She was as clever and imaginative cook, as once Mrs Whitley had been and she had at her disposal hundreds of recipes, all written in Cook’s neat, childish hand in her recipe book and which she now passed on to Meg as she did less and less in ‘her’ kitchen. They would stand her in good stead, she said, when Meg took up a position in her own kitchen in some grand household for to Mrs Whitley this was the summit to which Meg might aspire.

  The pastry crust on the pie had fallen apart when Meg cut into it, crumbling beneath the knife and the steaming aroma, so succulent it flooded the mouth with saliva, rose in a savoury swirl about the kitchen and even to Mrs Whitley’s room where she lay.

  ‘I think I could eat a bit of that, love,’ she said, and did! The meat bubbled gently in the thick, juicy gravy which was a rich wholesome brown and was just the thing for a winter’s night such as this, Tom said, his mouth full. They had a heaped pile of fluffy mashed potatoes and cabbage, boiled and chopped with butter and pepper and all eaten in the glowing comfort of the kitchen, then washed down with enormous mugs of hot, sweet tea, even Mrs Whitley!

  Mrs Whitley, over sixty now and ready, in Mr Lloyd’s sad opinion, for retirement though he was too soft-hearted to tell her so as yet, was in her bed, put there by the bronchitis which came more and more frequently to plague her ageing chest. Each winter it filled her lungs with phlegm so thick she could scarce get her breath. Each one cut her like a knife she confessed to Meg and Emm, for they could be trusted to keep it to themselves, but she’d be up and about in a day or two, she said optimistically. A sip of Meg’s broth, Cook’s own recipe of course, and a good coal fire in her bedroom for the cold air was a devil on her chest, and she’d be as right as rain, she assured them, and Mr Lloyd pretended to believe her. If it weren’t for Meg, he fully understood, Mrs Whitley would not have managed for as long as she had and if he could arrange it and she could hold on for a year or two until the girl was seventeen and old enough for the position, he meant to approach Mr Hemingway with the idea of putting Megan Hughes in as housekeeper. She was a good, capable girl, young yet but a year or two would remedy that.

  When the peal of the doorbell sounded through the house they were all in that state of torpor which a full belly and warm feet, a comfortable chair and the knowledge that all the chores are done, brings about. Meg was almost asleep and both Tom and Emm were at the unashamedly snoring stage!

  ‘Who the hell’s that?’ Tom mumbled thickly as he staggered from his chair. His expression was comical and he turned to stare first at Meg, then Emm as though they might know. It was almost nine o’clock and the snow outside was inches deep. It had drifted in places to the depth of a foot or more and earlier when Tom had looked out on the area steps they no longer had shape but had formed into a smooth incline.

  Meg rose from her chair with Emm as close behind her as she could get as Tom left the kitchen. She peeped from the window at the side of the door. All she could see was white and more white and just before the front entrance to the house the bottom half of the wheels of a hansom cab.

  A hansom cab!

  The only people to ride in a hansom cab were the doctor or Mr Lloyd and it was unlikely that either would call at this time of night and in the middle of a blizzard!

  She had never before seen the man who entered the kitchen ahead of the anxious Tom but with that instinctive reasoning which floods the mind in the space of the tick of a clock she was immediately aware that she did not trust him. He brought something with him that night into the homely kitchen and though she did not understand what it was, she was to look back later and recall that sixth sense which is given to all the animal species and it told her that this man was bad and that he would bring badness with him. She did not formulate the thought coherently for there were many images and feelings crowding her senses but inside the confused workings of her mind was the stealthy, unbidden reflection that their lives would change from this moment.

  The man bowed in a derisory manner towards her as if to say he knew she was not a lady but he was a gentleman. He did not bow for her sake, it seemed to say, but for his own. He had removed his top hat and held it in his hand. Snow had gathered in its brim on his short journey from the cab to the door and he shook it a time or two to remove the few remaining flakes. They looked at one another and for some strange reason Meg felt her heart beat in her breast, its tempo quickening and she knew it was dread which moved it but what was there to dread? What did this man mean to her that he should set up such a violent reaction of strange foreboding?

  Her eyes stared into his. His were insolent and cold and as she watched warily they fell with exaggerated interest to her breast as though he was well aware that he was rude but what did it matter? What did she matter?

  They both waited for Tom to speak.

  ‘Megan, this is Mr Harris. He’s come from … er … I’m sorry sir. I didn’t quite catch …’

  The stranger continued to stare at Meg’s breast as he said contemptuously – to the underling one supposed – ‘I am from Hemingway’s. The shipping line which owns this house.’

  ‘Of course.’ Tom was calm but his bewilderment showed in his slight awkwardness. He moved instinctively closer to Meg. It was evident she was not the only one to distrust this stranger!

  ‘I have come on a painful mission,’ Mr Harris continued silkily. ‘If I may be seated …?’

  Emm had slipped quietly into the shadows, like a small animal which scents danger from a bigger, and as Harris turned to look for a chair he saw the outline of her crouched figure against the glow of the lamp.

  ‘Who the devil is that?’ he said sharply, clearly alarmed.

  ‘It’s only Emm, sir.’ Tom’s voice was defensive. ‘She’ll not harm you. She’s timid with those she doesn’t know.’

  The man was clearly displeased that Tom had taken his alarm for fear and he spoke spitefully.

  ‘I can assure you she’ll do me no harm, boy, but need she lurk in the corner like that. Come out woman where you can be seen. Stupid creature!’

  Emm crept out from her hiding place and sidled behind Meg and the man watched her with his lip curled d
istastefully then moved towards the chair before the fire. Meg and Tom, with Emm clinging to Meg’s apron, moved hastily out of his way, almost tripping over the rug which lay at their feet. Mr Harris smiled and began to remove his topcoat holding it in one hand as he waited for one of them to take it. Tom sprang forward, crushing the long Chesterfield into an awkward bundle and earning a frown from Mr Harris.

  ‘Please, it is wet. Would you be so kind as to hang it up at once.’

  ‘Of course. I’m sorry.’ Tom hung the coat over the back of a chair and with the clumsiness which he had not shown since he was fifteen, stumbled over to a chair by the table and was about to sit down when another frown from their visitor jerked him upwards. It said clearly that the ‘underling’ did not sit in the presence of his superior. Meg continued to hover to the side of the fireplace, hampered by Emm’s desperate clutching, waiting numbly for Mr Harris to go on. It must be something to do with Martin, it must. Why else was this man here? He was from Hemingway’s, the ones who employed Martin and presumably had been sent with some message … bad news … Oh Lord … not an accident … Oh Lord … please …!

  Mr Harris’ eyes narrowed, running over her insolently and Meg felt a shudder touch her shoulder blades, then rise to the nape of her neck.

  ‘And you are …?’

  ‘Megan Hughes, sir.’ Her mouth was stiff and the words sounded stilted.

  ‘And where is Mrs Whitley? Is she not here this evening?’

  The feeling of mistrust and dread grew in Meg’s heart and she felt the pulse in her throat quicken and flutter. It must be Martin! Why else would Mr Harris ask for Mrs Whitley? He must have had an accident. The racing car … a tyre blow-out. Martin had explained to her what could happen if this happened at great speed … Oh God … please … not Martin. But who was this man and what else could he want with them? To turn out on such a night must point to something of an urgent nature but what could it be? She wished he would hurry up and get it over with, whatever it was he had come for! She didn’t like him and she didn’t like the sensation of disquiet he aroused in her and which shivered her flesh. There was bad news coming and this man was bringing it and more to the point he relished the telling of it for he was prolonging it for as long as he could.