Between Friends Page 14

  But he had asked for Mrs Whitley and was waiting for an answer.

  ‘Mrs Whitley is in bed, Mr Harris.’ Her voice was polite, no more.

  ‘Already!’

  The word implied astonishment as though the cook should have been at some task in the service of the company, but he smiled, just like a cat which is about to paw the mouse.

  ‘She’s not well,’ Meg answered challengingly as if to dare Mr Harris to question it but Mr Harris only continued to smile pleasantly.

  ‘I’m sorry to hear it,’ he replied. No-one spoke for a minute as Mr Harris regarded the two young people. Emm might not have existed. He tapped his lips with his clasped fingers and again appraised Meg’s young breast as though considering when might be the most convenient time to savour its delights but this time Tom noticed where his cruel gaze lingered and his young mouth tightened ominously.

  ‘Still,’ Mr Harris continued, ‘I must speak to her. Will you be good enough to ask her to get dressed and come down here immediately.’ He looked from Meg to Tom and there was malice in his expression.

  Meg gasped and for a moment was speechless. The idea of waking the sick old woman who lay in her bed, exhausted by the bouts of coughing which shook her was too ridiculous to be even considered but clearly this man was waiting for an answer.

  She stepped forward, dragging Emm with her, lifting her chin in a gesture Tom instantly recognised and inwardly he groaned. He knew she was going to ‘go’ for Mr Harris and her straightforward manner would not please this man, of that he was certain. He himself felt like smashing his fist into the smiling mouth but that was not the way to treat an official of the company, particularly if he was Tom’s superior! He was a sod, Tom could see that but Meg would only make things worse if she spoke up. She might be able to treat others with the sharp side of her tongue but not this chap. Every man in his place would be his rule and they were servants and himself above them. He was the kind who liked a toady, someone who was servile and fawning and though Tom had no intention of being either it was best to keep your distance from a man such as this for he obviously had a great opinion of his own importance.

  Before Meg could speak Tom insinuated himself between her and Mr Harris. They both looked at him in surprise.

  ‘The doctor gave orders that Mrs Whitley was not to be disturbed, Mr Harris sir. He left her a draught not more than an hour since and she’s asleep. It’s her chest you see. She can hardly breathe. Perhaps you could come back in the …’

  Tom’s voice was steady and he appeared completely unruffled, his tall frame almost indolent as he leaned between Meg and Mr Harris, but the man interrupted coldly.

  ‘Thank you Fraser but that will not be possible. I would like to see Mrs Whitley now for myself! For all I know the woman might not be sick at all but lying in a drunken stupor …’

  His unfeeling rudeness and the contemptuous implication that they were all liars was unforgivable. ‘You can see my point, I hope?’ His manner said it would be all the same if they did not. ‘I must be sure that … er … Mrs Whitley is really ill before I impart my news for she is the one to whom I must address it. I cannot tell just any Tom, Dick or Harry who happen to be about.’

  Meg flared to life like a Roman Candle, the touch-paper of which has just been lit. Her face flamed in the firelight, scarlet with anger and her eyes flashed tawny sparks which boded ill for Mr Harris or indeed anyone who called Cook a drunkard and Tom and herself a liar. Mrs Whitley was not a young woman and all day she had been wracked with the most terrible, tearing fits of coughing. Her chest rattled in her effort to take a decent breath without plunging a knife in it, clogged with the rottenness which came every winter. The damp air off the river seemed to penetrate the very bones of her and as she got older only the milder, dryer days of spring and summer brought relief. No-one was going to blacken Mrs Whitley in Meg’s hearing, not while she’d got breath in her body and a tongue in her head. Mr Lloyd would hear of this. He knew Cook’s worth and would make short shrift of this devil, whoever he was. Her fears for Martin were overlooked in her fury.

  ‘You can tell me and Tom, Mr Harris, for you’re going nowhere near Mrs Whitley,’ she announced imperiously. ‘I said she was poorly and so she is and that will have to be good enough. We can pass on any message you want to give her.’

  ‘Is that so, Megan?’ It was said smilingly and Meg had time to wonder that a man could smile so much and yet be so completely without humour! ‘Well, we shall see about that! I must say I am inclined to believe you for I have been informed Mrs Whitley is a woman to be trusted but you see your insolence is not something I am prepared to suffer. I’m afraid you will have to learn that I do not like to be opposed, particularly by one who is merely a housemaid herself!’ His hot eye devoured her waist and hip. ‘If you and I are to get on we shall …’

  ‘I don’t give a damn whether you and I get on or not,’ Meg shouted and Tom winced. ‘Mrs Whitley is not to be disturbed and if you make a move towards that door I shall …’ Meg’s rage was white hot and Tom was appalled. He had seen her in a temper many and many a time but never like this. She did not suffer fools lightly and said so stormily, but her hot temper quickly cooled and she never bore a grudge towards those at whom it had been directed.

  But this was something else and Tom was afraid for her. He thought she would strike Mr Harris and quickly he stepped forward to take her arm for if she lifted it there was no doubt in his mind that Harris would strike back.

  ‘Meg, Mr Harris is not going to hurt Mrs Whitley. He has a message to give her and he must be allowed to do so. It will only take a minute. Isn’t that right, Mr Harris?’ He turned his head reasonably to Harris, holding Meg’s arm protectively but she flung him off, standing on tiptoe to glare over his shoulder, her eyes glittering into those of Benjamin Harris.

  ‘He’s not going to see Mrs Whitley, Tom.’ Her loyalty to the cook was supreme. ‘If he wakes her up after the days she’s had I’ll not forgive him, nor you!’

  Her voice was like granite, hard and coarse and her eyes turned incredibly from pale amber to a still, treacle darkness. She gripped Tom’s shoulders as he tried to force her back into the chair from which he had himself risen only fifteen minutes ago and the pair of them fell into it heavily.

  Harris rose lazily, again like a cat which moves against its prey and Emm whimpered in her throat, cowering back into the safety of the shadowed corner. He was tall and thin, with narrow shoulders. Everything about him was narrow. His face might have been considered attractive for it was finely drawn with a well-shaped mouth and nose but his features were set in a tapering triangle which gave him the look of a fox. His eyes were grey, colourless, set close together as though there was not enough room for them to be otherwise. It was a face without expression or warmth, a face of aridity showing only contempt for those he considered beneath him.

  ‘I shall go up now,’ he said casually. ‘Don’t bother to come with me. Tell me where it is and I shall find my way.’

  With a smoothly smiling backward glance Benjamin Harris moved towards the door.

  ‘You leave Mrs Whitley alone,’ Meg shrieked. Tom was holding her tightly, his face as white and set as her own as they struggled to get out of the chair. In their eagerness they impeded rather than helped one another. Tom clasped her lovingly and stroked her back as he tried to soothe her.

  ‘Don’t lovey, don’t,’ he murmured. ‘She’ll be alright. There’s nothing he can do to her.’

  ‘He can frighten her, Tom. Let me go please. Let me go with him. I can’t let her be looked at by a stranger. I’ll behave myself, honest Tom. Please let me go. Come with me if you want but don’t let her wake to a stranger’s face. She’ll be frightened out of her wits. Please Tom, she’s been like a Mam to us. Don’t let him do this to her!’

  Tom’s eyes were soft with understanding but his mouth was grim. He was not much more than a boy and this was a man’s thing and he was not sure how to deal with it. He had been ordered
to stay where he was by a man of some importance in the shipping line and if he disobeyed he supposed he was in danger of losing his job but Meg was right and he did not hesitate.

  Together he and Meg were out of the kitchen and into the long, narrow passage which ran the full length of the house from the front door to the kitchen. It was like stepping into a freezing, numbing stretch of icy water. The warmth of the kitchen lapped from the door behind them, leaking into the hallway but it had no effect on the temperature. Upstairs Meg could hear footsteps echoing on the carpetless stairs at the top of the house and without a moment’s hesitation she flung herself to the bottom of the stairs, Tom right behind her!

  ‘I’m here, Meggie,’ he said encouragingly and she turned for a second to look into his familiar face. She felt a surge of loving gratitude but without stopping she galloped up the stairs holding her long skirt so high Tom caught a glimpse of the garters which held up her black stockings.

  Benjamin Harris was in Mrs Whitley’s bedroom standing before the blazing fire, his hands lifting the tail of his coat to allow the warmth to his thin buttocks. The soft glow of the flames peached the walls and ceiling and cast an almost healthy glow on Mrs Whitley’s pale, sleeping face.

  A sudden squall of wind peppered the tightly closed windows with hard pellets of snow and as if suddenly aware that she was no longer alone the woman in the bed stirred. She turned from her side to her back and immediately, as the new position disturbed the thick phlegm which choked her lungs, she began to cough violently. She struggled to push aside the warm covering which Meg had tucked neatly about her and in an instant Meg was by her side. Tom moved to the far side of the bed and as gently as Meg, lifted the distressed woman to a sitting position.

  Slowly the coughing spell began to subside. Mrs Whitley did not appear to notice the tall threatening figure before the fire, but tried to smile, nodding her head and patting the hands of the two who helped her but still she could not get her breath to speak.

  ‘It’s alright, Mrs Whitley, we’ve got you, just take your time. Me and Tom have got you.’ Meg murmured soothingly to her as the woman eased herself back on the pillows which Tom had plumped up for her

  ‘That’s better,’ she wheezed at last, taking shallow, painful breaths. ‘That’s it, thanks Tom. Will … you … pass … me medicine. It’s …’ She panted a little and beads of perspiration dewed her flushed face, ‘… on the dresser.’

  She pointed vaguely, her hand a mere wisp of white flesh and transparent bone and as she turned her head she saw Benjamin Harris. He had remained perfectly still during her coughing bout but as she started convulsively at the sight of him he took a step forward and bowed, his arrogant smile as hard as the buckshot of snow which bombarded the window.

  ‘Good evening, Mrs Whitley. I do beg your pardon for intruding in this ungentlemanly fashion but I have same rather sad news to impart to you. I would not ordinarily invade a lady’s room in this manner but Megan here said you were unwell and could not be brought down so I was forced to come to you!’

  He smiled his fox’s smile and the bright feverish colour drained from Mrs Whitley’s face, leaving it damp and leaden grey. Her eyes stared in fearful bewilderment and her hands clasped those of Meg and Tom as she drew further back in her nest of pillows.

  ‘I must say you seem extremely comfortable here,’ Mr Harris continued. He looked about him musingly, his expression implying that he had never quite seen anything like it in his life. ‘Your room is warmer than my own at the club and I see you are eating well, too!’ He slyly indicated the dainty tray on which the remains of the steak and kidney pie lay, and a half eaten egg custard Meg had made to tempt Mrs Whitley’s capricious appetite. ‘Did … er … Mr Lloyd give his permission for this … luxury in which you appear to live or were you constrained to take it upon yourself to …’

  Meg turned on him, her eyes flashing like beacons in her rosy face.

  ‘She’s ill, Mr Harris. You can see that for yourself. The doctor said she was to have eggs and …’

  ‘At whose expense, Megan?’

  ‘Pardon!’

  ‘It appears the shipping line is paying to keep its servants in considerable comfort!’ He turned to look at the fireplace. ‘This fire alone is worth a week’s wages to many a poor labourer and this room is very fine! Very fine indeed! Well, we shall have to see about that later.’ He became brisk. ‘I must be about what it is I came for.’ He rocked slightly on his heels and affected a peculiarly chilling smile. ‘I’m afraid one of our company’s servants has had a little accident. The snow and ice, you know. It really is dreadful underfoot. Apparently a Clydesdale lost its footing in Chapel Street. Its hooves could not find purchase on the hill and as it went down it took its partner and the dray they pulled. Beer barrels, I believe, which of course rolled down the hill and … well … poor Mr Lloyd was in their path and …’

  Mrs Whitley began to moan and her head fell back limply on to her pillows. Harris shrugged and an unreadable expression moved across his face and lifted the line of his thin cut lips. There was, apparently, worse to come!

  ‘I happened to be in the office with Mr Hemingway when the news came and I thought, as I am to take his place, I would come and tell you of it at once.’ He paused. ‘Edward Lloyd is dead, you see, and I am to be the new agent for this house!’

  He looked round at the three ashen-faced figures and his teeth showed exactly like those of a wolf as he smiled.

  Chapter Ten

  MEG AND TOM attended Mr Lloyd’s funeral in the company of the new agent, who represented the Hemingway shipping line, and though Meg was anxious to get back to Mrs Whitley who had worsened in the last few days, Benjamin Harris refused to allow them to leave the graveside until the last spadeful of earth was patted into place on the grave. He spoke at length in false sympathy to the widow, eliciting a remark later to her daughters on his understanding kindness and how lucky dear Edward’s employees were to have someone of such benevolence following in his footsteps, and only when the last mourner had gone did he finally turn to the two who waited resentfully, indicating that they might go ahead of him to the hansom cab which waited.

  Benjamin Harris was a widower. His wife, five years older than he had left him childless but with a comfortable income to augment the salary he earned as an official with the ‘Hemingway Shipping Line’. It was not quite enough to enable him to live in the manner which he would have liked, nor was his salary, but combined they gave him the means to maintain the standard of living which he considered suitable for someone of his station.

  He was the youngest son of a parson and had been given a good classical education but little else besides an overwhelming sense of his own superiority. He was brought up in the sanctimonious atmosphere of the parsonage for the first eighteen years of his life since his father had not the resources to send all his sons to a good school, hedged about with pious observances on the sanctity of the cardinal virtues and the proper fear of God. Submissiveness, humility, respect for one’s own chastity and the exaltation of prayer! These had been drummed into the boy and his many brothers and sisters since his father’s views on celibacy did not extend to himself – from the moment he was able stand on his infant feet in church. He had repressed all feelings bar those of bitter resentment at the world which had consigned him to this life without the means or education to escape it but when he was eighteen a miraculous thing occurred!

  An old school friend of his father came to visit the parsonage, a Mr Robert Hemingway, a shipowner and a wealthy and influential man in his home town of Liverpool. In a moment of expansive volubility Mr Hemingway had disclosed to those at table that he was about to employ a man to assist one of his agents in the matter of the emigrant trade which flourished in the city and before his father’s astonished gaze, young Benjamin had sprung from his seat and offered himself for the post. Of course his father had refused it, saying it was no position for a gentleman but Benjamin persisted and during the whole of Mr Hemingway
’s visit took every opportunity to show himself to his best advantage.

  ‘If you can persuade your father the job is yours, my boy,’ Mr Hemingway said as he was handed in to his carriage by the young man, fully expecting never to see him again. Benjamin made no effort to convince his father. He had lived with him for eighteen years and knew the futility of attempting to change the man to a view which differed from his own but three weeks later, his possessions packed neatly in a carpet bag of which he was immensely ashamed, he caught the train to Liverpool, presenting himself at Mr Hemingway’s place of business.

  He did not do well! Though he was charming and could mix with the society which was Robert Hemingway’s, as his employee he was not invited to, and those with whom he worked were not considered the ‘right sort’ by young Benjamin. When one called him ‘Ben’ in a friendly fashion Benjamin was most rude to him and he was ignored from that day by all levels of class. His courteous civility was not required when dealing with rough peasants who did not understand what he said anyway and he was short-tempered in his dealings with them. He was not liked! His contempt for those he considered beneath him was poorly concealed and he was cold-shouldered not only by those with whom he wished to be friendly, but by those he did not!

  When he had been in Liverpool for two years he met the daughter of a moderately wealthy trader. The father, a widower, owned a brewery, a modestly luxurious villa in Sefton Park, and Matilda was his only child. She and Benjamin were married when he was twenty-one and Matilda twenty-six and from then on his life improved, for Matilda doted on her young husband. She was eternally grateful to him for selecting her as his wife and when, three years later her father died they lived together in his house, now hers and entertained the lesser gentry of the district.