Between Friends Page 17

  On the first of January she collapsed at Mr Harris’ feet when he summoned her to his study to make an accounting for the month of December. As Tom and Meg almost carried her from the room, his nostrils were dilated in distaste as he told them he could no longer pay the wages of a woman who could not even keep her feet before her employer, let alone do her work as she should!

  It was the next day when he called Meg into his study. Tom had repainted it during the summer and new, floor length curtains had been put to the windows, a rich, plum velvet. A fire crackled pleasingly in the well-shined black-leaded grate – no economy here Meg thought bitterly – and before it was a round table upon which Harris did his accounts. There were a pair of comfortable leather chairs, brought by him from the house he had once shared with Matilda, a desk against the dark, heavily papered wall, a sofa of haircloth and rosewood and all warmly set on a patterned Brussels carpet. There were ornaments of silver and cut crystal and bronze, a sepia photograph of Harris and his Matilda on their wedding day in a silver frame and on the wall above the fireplace, Landseer’s ‘Monarch of the Glen’ looked down loftily on the scene beneath his fine nose.

  In the corner of the large room, standing next to a massive mahogany cupboard in which Mr Harris’ entire splendid wardrobe hung, was a double bed partially hidden behind a Chinese screen, installed there for the night when he was disinclined for the charms of the barmaid. All very warm and comfortable … and threatening!

  Meg stood just inside the door. She did not often come to this room for it was the job of Betsy and May to do the cleaning here, he had told them, whilst Meg saw to the kitchen and the cooking, and Tom, of course, was set about any lowly task Mr Harris could devise for him. The other girls, taken on for a few weeks when the ‘rush’ was on, had, naturally, been turned off when it was over.

  ‘What’s it about?’ she asked Betsy when the maid told her breathlessly the master wanted to see her immediately in his study. ‘An’ yer to put on yer best dress,’ Betsy added.

  ‘What for?’ she asked, instantly on the alert.

  ‘How do I know?’ Betsy retorted. ‘He don’t tell me what goes on in his head,’ but there was a strange gleam in her eye.

  ‘What can it be, d’you think, Tom?’ Meg asked anxiously.

  ‘God knows, lovey! Probably wants us to pay him for the privilege of working at Hemingway’s!’

  Tom Fraser was badly disturbed by his own inability to find a decent job, a safe refuge for his ‘womenfolk’. He felt it strongly, his young manhood strained to the limits and his bitterness showed in his inclination to be sharp where once he had been ruffled by nothing more serious than Everton’s failure to score a goal on a Saturday afternoon. He did his best to relieve Meg’s burden of extra work which was put on her by Mrs Whitley’s illness but the constant undermining of his own carefree belief that life was good, filled with hard work but good nevertheless, had been severely tested. He detested Benjamin Harris, a feeling he did not relish for it was not in his nature to be vindictive. He watched Meg leave the kitchen, clearly nervous, and his mouth clenched into a straight, tight line for he would have given his right arm to take the worry from her and he knew he could not do so. The feeling of frustration did not sit sweetly in his young breast!

  ‘Come in,’ Harris called when she knocked on his door. She did so.

  ‘Close the door behind you.’ He was standing before the fire in much the same pose he had affected when he had first entered Cook’s bedroom on the night he had arrived. His coat-tails were lifted to warm his buttocks and he stood with his legs apart, his hands behind his back. His cool gaze rested on her face as she closed the door obediently behind her. Her heart banged in her chest and her mouth had mysteriously dried up!

  How did she know? She asked herself the question later and she could not answer it but every female instinct in her, every sense and pulse told her why she was here and she was deathly afraid.

  His brutal gaze fell to her breast and he smiled, running his tongue round his lips. His hands beneath his coat seemed to move in some strange way and he rocked back and forth in a manner which implied all manner of dreadful things.

  ‘Come here, Megan.’ His voice was no more than a thread of sound in the soft comfort of the room.

  ‘Betsy said you wanted to see me.’ Her’s was loud, a barrage of noise to form a defence of sorts. ‘What is it, sir?’

  ‘Come here by the fire,’ he repeated.

  ‘I’m alright here, thank you sir but if you please I must be getting back to the kitchen in a minute. I’ve left some pies in the oven and Betsy won’t …’

  ‘Never mind the pies, Megan. I want you to come here. I have something to discuss with you and we can hardly carry on a conversation shouting across a room, can we?’

  Suddenly Meg’s spine stiffened and she lifted her chin. What the hell was she so scared of? Trembling here by the door as though Harris was about to leap on her and throw her to the floor. Tom was only a few yards away, and Betsy and May and if he so much as laid a finger on her she’d scream so bloody loud half the Square would be bashing at the door in a minute. Even Constable O’Shea who patrolled Upper Pitt Street regularly as clockwork would hear her once she got going.

  ‘What is it, Mr Harris?’ she said tartly. ‘If I leave those pies for more than ten minutes they’ll be burned to a crisp.’

  ‘How is Mrs Whitley today, Megan?’ Benjamin Harris’ voice was like velvet and the sudden reversal, the abrupt departure from the ‘discussion’ which Meg had supposed to concern the usual economies threw her off balance.

  ‘Mrs Whitley …?’ she faltered.

  ‘Mmm. She is still … unwell, is she not?’

  What to say! Dear God what was she to say? Confirm to him that Mrs Whitley was still ‘lingering’ as he put it, in her bed or pretend that the cook was up and about, doing her duty, busy in the kitchen? But then she had just admitted, inadvertently, she realised now that she herself was making pies and that there was no-one but Betsy to supervise them. They had all, somehow … Dear Lord … managed to keep up the pretence that Mrs Whitley was about somewhere whenever he had come into the kitchen. The poor woman was terrified that he would send her packing if he discovered she was unable to fulfill her duties, as he most certainly would and yet here he was asking after her as though there was nothing but concern for her in his heart. She felt her’s begin to thump erratically in her chest and she swallowed the lump which had formed at the back of her throat.

  ‘Well …’ the word she spoke was no more than a despairing breath on her lips.

  His voice was silky with menace. ‘I have heard her cough in the night, even from down here. I wonder does she perhaps disturb the other servants, as she does myself? Keep them from their sleep? If they do not rest, if I do not rest, we cannot do our work properly, would you not agree, Megan?’

  He smiled and his hands moved more quickly beneath his coat. ‘Would she not perhaps be better served with her own relatives, d’you think?’

  ‘She has no family, sir.’ Meg’s voice had become lifeless, hopeless.

  ‘Oh dear, then I can see no alternative but the poor house …?’ The statement which was not really a statement but a query, was spoken sadly.

  ‘Mr Harris … sir!’ Desperation overcame Meg and her eyes blazed, ‘… she is sixty-two! She has been here for twenty years.’

  ‘It is her home, you are saying?’

  ‘Oh yes sir, it is.’

  ‘Quite so, quite so, but then … dead wood, you know the saying, Megan?’

  ‘Dead wood, sir?’

  ‘Yes, I’m afraid so and then there is the question of the … other one …’

  ‘Emm …?’ Meg’s voice faltered and the glow of outrage drained away and despair took its place.

  ‘Yes. She really is quite … useless, as is Mrs Whitley. I need strong, willing persons …’

  ‘Emm is strong and very willing. She works all hours God sends, sir, really. I know she is not … she is
… nervous, perhaps and a bit slow too … but she is the best worker we have and will work until she drops, sir!’

  Harris seemed to consider this though his expression made games of it.

  ‘So! You are saying she and Mrs Whitley would not want to leave.’

  ‘Of course not!’ The words were said bravely, defiantly, hopelessly!

  ‘You would not want them to leave?’

  Meg drew a shuddering breath and the pulse in the hollow of her throat beat a frantic tattoo. Though he had not said a word which could, if it had been overheard by another be construed as threatening, there was no doubt now of what he had in his mind. She was an innocent girl but she was not simple. It was all there in his manner, in the way his eyes glowed hotly about her trembling figure and she was in such mortal terror she could no longer speak. She knew finally there was no comfort to be had in calming herself with vigorous thoughts of fighting and screaming if this man should touch her. He did not mean to force her. He had no need, had he? She was to go to him willingly. He had only to speak softly of Cook, of Emm, to consider out loud the possibility of getting rid of ‘dead wood’ and the struggle was over before she had a chance to fight. What a fool she had been. A naive fool who had come to the butcher’s block with all the ignorance of a sheep which is to have its throat cut. She had believed in her own strength and courage and had despised this man, thinking she could treat him with disdain, with contempt until the time came when she and Tom would find – miraculously now she realised – a new place for them all away from this man. He could level a pistol at her head, raise a sword or an axe and she would spit in his face but he was telling her that if she did not submit to … to whatever his foul mind had prepared for her, he would fling not only Emm from the house, but the frail old woman who was ill upstairs with as much compunction he would a basket of unwanted kittens. She and Tom would survive. They would find other employment for they were young and strong but Mrs Whitley and Emm? Would they?

  Still she tried to outface him. Her lion heart pumped hot blood through her body and her trembling limbs struggled to gain strength from it. Her face was the colour of pipe-clay. Her eyes were the deep yellow of a cat which is cornered but she stiffened her back and lifted her head challengingly.

  ‘Now Megan, let us not be unreasonable,’ he said softly. ‘I merely wish you and I to be … friends. It is not too much to ask of you, is it, and it would mean so much to Mrs Whitley and the other one. I am good to those who … please me, Megan. I believe you to be fond of the old woman, and of course, any good fortune you might gain from your … friendship with me, would encompass those of whom you are fond. A rise in your wages could be used to make your companion’s life more comfortable, you do see that, do you not, Megan. There would be no need for you to tell the others of our little … arrangement if you did not wish it since I can see where it might make it awkward for you. The other servants … well … they need not know. When I am in need of … companionship I will come to your room and we will … well, I am sure you know what we will do, my dear. You are a very pretty girl, Megan and I would find it most enjoyable to …’

  Here he began to speak words of such obscenity, such odious, scarcely understood grossness, Megan felt her mind begin to slip away to escape the filth with which he smilingly coated her. The images he evoked were so terrible she felt herself to be already violated and her young innocence hid her mercifully away from it in the only way it knew how. Megan Hughes turned off completely then. She stared numbly into Harris’ pale, pale grey eyes and from across the room the vileness in them and in the looseness of his mouth did not even penetrate the numbness of her terror-stricken brain.

  ‘… you shall naturally have another room, nearer to mine, so if you would like to go into Liverpool and choose some … some pretty things, for your new room and for yourself … underwear … lace … you know what I would like, I’m sure. All women know how to please a gentleman, do they not Megan and I’m certain you are no exception. Would you not like that, Megan? To have nice things …?’

  Her head had drooped as his words hung over her. Her face was in shadow and her long lashes hid her eyes.

  ‘Look at me, Megan.’ His voice was blurred and hoarse with his lust. ‘Look at me.’ Her hands trembled against the smooth whiteness of her apron, clutching at each other, but when she raised her eyes to his the expression in them made him recoil. In them was the venom of a snake before it strikes, the hatred of a lioness as she defends her cubs from the hunter, the loathing of a woman who will kill to avenge a wrong done her. Though her face was waxen, with no colour nor life and her mouth was soft, trembling, vulnerable as that of a child her eyes were on fire, hot and smouldering with malevolence, a passion of loathing so great he fully expected her to spring for his throat.

  His exultation soared and he could scarce keep his hands from her now, this very minute. God, it was going to be marvellous taming this magnificent child, he rejoiced. The barmaid had long since lost her charm. Those of the working class who had taken her place, for Benjamin Harris had a liking for those who were socially inferior to himself, had not always been willing to cater to his own predilection in the ways of pleasing his body but this one, she would be formidable! She would have no choice! Her eyes told him she knew that as they looked at him balefully but they said she would fight, fight him every step of the way nevertheless! His humbling of her would give him the greatest satisfaction he had ever known with a woman, but she must be absolutely certain that he meant every word he had said to her.

  ‘The night air is sharp at this time of the year, Megan and the food in the poor house quite inferior. It would not sustain a woman in good health, let alone one who is … vulnerable!’

  He watched as she became as lifeless as the porcelain figurine on his mantelshelf. ‘Now, my dear, you may return to your duties but remember what I have said. I will leave you some money to buy yourself some … pretties.’ The word was said with a lecherous, almost inhuman smile, like that of a fox which lifts its muzzle to take its prey. ‘I am to be away tomorrow and have some business to which I must attend later today, but when I return on Friday I shall expect to find you in … well, I leave it to you to choose a suitable room.’

  He smiled, waving her away peremptorily, the master dismissing the maid.

  Quietly she turned and left the room.

  Chapter Twelve

  ‘HAS HE GONE?’

  ‘Aye. Across to the wolds for a few days, he said, wherever that is and I hope he falls and breaks his bloody neck because I don’t think I can take much more of this, our Meg. If he calls me “boy” once more I’ll bash his flamin’ face in, gospel, our kid, or wring his neck and then I’ll swing for him. Jesus only knows how we’re going to get through the rest of this winter with Mrs Whitley like she is. He’ll kill her, Meg, you realise that, don’t you? Surely to God it can’t be true what he says about old Hemingway and all these economies he’s on about. I can’t believe that decent old chap we met with Martin could be so cold-hearted that he’d begrudge an old woman, someone who’s worked hard in his employ, honest as the day is long, a bit of a fire in her room when she’s ill! It just goes to show! Much always wants more and I suppose that’s why he’s living where he is and the likes of us are here! What I can’t understand is why Martin thinks the world of him like he does. Surely he wouldn’t work for someone as bloody minded as Harris makes him out to be? Martin’s got a bloody good head on his …’

  ‘You’d better watch your language, Tom. You know Mrs Whitley doesn’t like it.’

  ‘I can’t help it, Meg. He’s enough to make a saint swear. D’you know, if he wasn’t away with Martin I’d go up there and demand to see him …’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Hemingway, of course. It’s not right, Meg and if Martin was here he’d say the same, you know he would. I wonder when they get back?’ Tom pushed his hand distractedly through his hair, forcing the short golden curls to stand on end. ‘What the hell can they find t
o do with them damn racing cars, anyway? You’d think they’d get sick to death of dashing from one bloody place to another. Irish trials, hill climbs, Scottish trials, Brooklands track, Pately Bridge, bloody places I’ve never even heard of.’

  ‘Well, Mr Hemingway is pleased they’ve won so many events, Martin says, so I expect …’

  ‘I dunno …’ Tom interrupted her irritably, his hands thrust deep in his pockets as though to release them they might do someone some damage, ‘it makes you wonder what grown men find so fascinating about racing one motor car against another. I can see no sense nor purpose in it myself. Aah well …’ he sighed resignedly, ‘… each to his own, I suppose!’

  He began to mix up the paste with which he cleaned the brass base of the lamps, his face set in lines of puzzled ill-humour. The fierce look of concentration, the hunted air of a fox as the hounds close in, the almost visible tension which swept Meg about the room like a broom being wielded by some demented hand seemed not to be noticed as he spat and polished, muttering as he did so under his breath.

  ‘You got any money, Tom?’ The abrupt question made him jump and he dropped the glass bowl of the lamp on to the chenille covered table.

  ‘Money?’

  ‘Yes, for God’s sake! You know what money is, don’t you?’

  ‘There’s no need to snap my head off, Meg. I was only …’

  Meg sighed and turning on the rug before the kitchen fire sank slowly to her knees. Her face was rosy from the dancing flames but beneath the soft colour there was strain and her mouth was set in a rigid line. The light danced in her eyes giving them an almost merry sparkle but there was a dispirited droop to her strong shoulders and a faint shake in her hands as she held them out to the warmth.

  ‘I’m sorry, Tom. I know you haven’t got any, it’s just that …’

  Tom got up from the table and moved across the kitchen until he stood beside her. He sat down on the stool where Emm usually perched herself to warm her thin shanks and leaned forward. He took Meg’s hand, holding it with such gentleness it might have been a wounded bird. It trembled in his and he bent to look softly into her face. His eyes were filled with the light of his loving concern and she nearly gave in then. The sweetness, the inherent goodness of this boy for that was what he was compared to her own brutal introduction to the foulness of man’s perversion, swept away all the fragile half-formed plans she had devised during the night to gain their freedom and which now she was bitterly aware were no more than a child’s fairy tale. Tom’s gaze almost cracked the thin casing of armour she had gathered about herself to protect what was the pure essence of Megan Hughes and she despaired then, for how was she to shoulder alone the enormity of this ghastly burden? Try as she might, twist and turn and duck as her mind had done in the bed she still shared with Emm, she was fettered as closely to Benjamin Harris as if they were joined by iron shackles. She could walk away! She and Tom could walk away and be free to pick and choose from the work which was available to those who are young and strong and experienced. They could put Mrs Whitley and Emm into the Poor House. There would be a pallet for them there to sleep on, with a thin blanket and a bowl of something each day to sustain life but how could she be sustained, how could Megan Hughes live on and be free if she allowed it. And she could not share her burden! She could not find relief by pouring out her fear, her horror and shame to Mrs Whitley or to Tom.