Between Friends Page 19

  The wheels on which the fire hose was attached were being drawn close to their own front door but he could not see what was happening since the angle of the steep roof and the broad gutters cut off his view. The horses which had pulled the engine had been returned to the entrance of the Square but even from where he clung he could see the frightened whites of their eyes. Ladders were being jockeyed into position but the smoke was billowing in great black swathes across the Square and it was as if he and Meg and Mrs Whitley sat above dense clouds, thick as blankets, scorching, suffocating, acrid and slowly taking the linings from their tortured lungs. He could hear the shattering of glass and in one terrifying moment the horizontal cornice which crowned the building blundered past them with a devastating crash and fell into the street and there was a hoarse cry from beneath them. The house was slowly falling apart, the fire eating away at it’s supports and, tormented by fear and anxiety, Tom Fraser’s young courage began to crumble for how was he to get an old woman deep in shock and near to death, he was convinced, and a young girl whose terror was so great she could do no more now than cling to him, and to the sparking window ledge, away from this danger to the safety of the next roof. The slates were wet now, the frost which had coated them melted away by the heat. It was steep and he was but one pair of hands, one pair of arms to bear two frail women across the horrifying slope.

  ‘Tom! Tom … for God’s sake, man … over here … quick … Tom, over here to your right! We’ve got a rope … Tom! Damnation, Tom, turn your bloody head …!’

  The voice was sharp, forceful, confident and yet soft with the passionate certainty that was so familiar and both Meg and Tom turned their heads instinctively; turned their frozen, stunned minds towards the source of it. It was as if new life, vigorous and filled with the sureness that now all would be right brought them back from the depth of the black hell into which their fear had forced them. Martin was here! Martin had come, not to save them but to give them the strength to save themselves and of course they could do it! Of course they could!

  ‘Chuck it over, Martin,’ Tom said urgently, but steady now and unquestioning in his belief that though it would be difficult, well nigh impossible really, he and Martin and Meg could do it!

  Mrs Whitley was the first to go, the rope securely about her waist, Tom holding one end, Martin the other, her eyes fixed trustingly, aware now, on Martin, creeping like some ancient old cat, her hands like claws scrabbling for purchase on the tiles and Martin’s voice never stopped, hypnotising her into believing that she was perfectly able to do it until her old hand touched his own, young and strong and she was pulled to safety and borne away by the firemen who crouched at Martin’s shoulder.

  Meg was next, faster and more nimble than Mrs Whitley and Martin’s surprising tears were wet on her cheek as he held her for a brief moment before she was passed in her turn to the waiting firemen. The crowd was quite amazed as they watched the two young men, high on the rooftop for all to see, cling together for a desperate second before the firemen pulled them urgently apart. This was no time to be embracing like a couple of schoolgirls, their manner seemed to say, not with the whole bloody lot about to go any minute!

  Chapter Thirteen

  ‘YOU SHALL STAY here, Megan, and Fraser as well for as long as you care to. Mrs Stewart assures me there is plenty of work in the kitchen and Fraser … well … I’m certain something can be found for you outside as soon as your hands are healed. Whatever you feel will suit your capabilities. Martin tells me you have no mechanical leaning so I assume you will not care to be involved with the motors … no? … then there is the garden or the stables and Ramsden is always in need of someone in the carpenter’s shop …’

  The room was warm, the lamp lit and casting a cosy glow about the plain white walls of the room in which they all stood. It threw its flickering golden shadows over the patchwork quilt on the bed and reflected in the shine of beeswax on the chest of drawers against the wall. It turned the meticulously starched and ironed smoothness of the linen runner which was placed upon it to protect its surface to a delicate butter yellow. The curtains, fresh and also stiff with starch were drawn against the night and the fire spluttered pleasingly in the grate but there was an air of tension, an unease which rested strangely on the still figures of two of the company and cast deep shadows about their young faces. There were flowers in a bowl on the table along with the lamp, and a bible, and on the wall was an embroidered and framed text which beseeched the Good Lord to ‘Bless this House’. A rag rug lay on the superbly polished linoleum and over all was a pleasant smell which spoke of carbolic and blacklead, duster and dust pan, a fastidious attention to the removal of dirt and yet the frivolity of the massed blooms in the bowl softened the sparseness with their fragrance.

  ‘… so you see there is work for both of you should you want it. Mrs Whitley will have one of the estate cottages and will be properly cared for until she regains her strength and if you decide to take up my offer of employment you may visit her whenever your duties allow it. She should have retired last year when … but that is another matter.’

  The speaker smiled serenely at the old lady in the bed and she nodded her head agreeably, willing it seemed to be placed anywhere that was warm and where she could have the ‘three of ’em’ to come and see her.

  ‘Of course if you would prefer to make your own arrangements,’ he continued, ‘I will not stand in your way and would give you a reference but I do feel you would be best served staying here for a week or two before you begin to look around. Perhaps you might want to work in town.’ Robert Hemingway smiled genially. ‘I know how young people are. They like to be where there is some life, a bit of fun, eh? It is very quiet out here at Silverdale. A long way to the bright lights of Liverpool and I know you are both accustomed to working in the hustle and bustle that is there but … well … you have both had a nasty shock. Fraser’s hands are quite badly burned and he will be unable to do much for a while so you see …’

  ‘Did they find Emm?’ The bald question grated painfully from Meg’s throat, cutting through Mr Hemingway’s kind words and he stopped speaking immediately, confused and obviously distressed. He was doing his best to smooth the grievous path these two youngsters must tread and had not meant to speak of the fire until they were both somewhat recovered from the blow of it. He had hoped to occupy their stunned minds with the future, the certainty that they were not to worry themselves with it for he would look after them. If he reassured them on the subject of employment which he knew to preoccupy most of the working class today, or indeed any day, might they not perhaps feel happier in their minds, sleep more easily in the warm and comfortable beds he was having prepared for them. He had dearly hoped no question would be asked, at least tonight, about the maid who had unhappily perished in the blaze, but it had been and he must answer it.

  He cleared his throat, playing for time to find the right, the most comforting words.

  ‘Emm?’ he said tentatively and his manner gave the impression that he had not the slightest notion of who that might be. It was not the right attitude to take with Megan Hughes. Not at that precise moment. For the best part of the past two hours Meg could not have said really what had gone on for she had retreated badly into shock when she had been brought down from the roof, Emm’s screams still lingering in her ears. She had followed directions given her by sympathetic young maids, allowing herself to be divested of her foul smelling, charred clothing, to be immersed, quite naked and in front of strangers in a bath in a bathroom which, had she been in her right mind would have filled her with wondering delight. She could barely recall having her wet hair towelled and brushed and a soothing salve laid on the burns she could not remember receiving, nor the tranquillising concoction made up by Mrs Glynn, the cook at Silverdale, consisting mainly of honey which had been poured down her scorched, unresisting throat. She had presumably been dressed again for she was wearing clothes she had never seen before but she had not regained her senseless mind u
ntil she had been led by the hand into this room and seen Mrs Whitley propped up in the snow white comfort of the bed. She was sipping a honey, glycerine and lemon potion prepared by the same Mrs Glynn, for her chest she explained, and what a blessing it had proved to be for she had felt better immediately, unaware that it contained a liberal dose of her master’s best Scotch whiskey. Already she was beginning to doze, the dreadful experience fading into a merciful and alcoholic mist.

  Meg stood menacingly beside her, protectively one might even say and Mr Hemingway was quite dismayed by the grim expression on her pretty young face. Her eyes were flat, lifeless and narrowed but in their depths was a tiny flame which seemed to grow fiercer with every moment.

  ‘Yes, Emm,’ she repeated. ‘She works for you, Mr Hemingway and she works hard but I don’t suppose you give a damn about that, do you? She was just another pair of hands used to keep your business running, to make you a profit. She is nothing but a skivvy, not quite “all there” as he used to say and not even worth the trouble of asking after. Have you asked after her, Mr Hemingway? Have you taken the trouble to concern yourself as to her whereabouts, because if you haven’t, well I will … I’m … she’s our friend … mine and Mrs Whitley’s.’ Her face began to quiver and her mouth stretched on her savage pain and anger and the tears welled to her eyes. ‘… she’s a … she’s been my friend for a long time …’ Her agitation grew and in the bed Mrs Whitley tried to sit up and her own face began to work. She tried to lift her hand to Meg but the sight of it, bandaged from finger tips to elbow for they had all sustained burns in their climb to safety, appeared to confuse her, as though, for the moment she could not quite recall where she was or how she came to be here.

  ‘Meg,’ she quavered. Instantly Meg turned to her, kneeling at her side, her face a vivid and truculent scarlet and her arms reached out for the old woman.

  ‘It’s alright, Mrs Whitley. Don’t be frightened. I’ll not let him hurt you. I just want to find out where our Emm is and then we’ll be off.’ Her voice was quite demented and in truth it would not have taken more than a gentle push to send Meg Hughes over the line which divides hysteria from self-control.

  ‘Off?’

  ‘Yes, I’m not staying here with this … this …’ She turned, squaring up to Robert Hemingway like a furious she-cat who will defend her young or die of it, and, about to place a soothing hand on the child’s shoulder for surely she had lost her mind and who could blame her, the old gentleman stepped back hastily, afraid that her raking fingers might have his very eyes out.

  ‘It was all your fault, you and that devil you put in charge of us,’ she shouted. ‘He ought to be … to be …’ She could think of no fate bad enough for Benjamin Harris to suffer, ‘… and I hope he rots in hell. I only wish he’d been in the house. I’d have pushed him into the flames myself … oh Dear God …’

  She began to weep inconsolably since, of course, as she had really known all along, she had begun to accept that Emm was not hiding somewhere, nor in another room being cossetted and if she was not here, with them, where else could she be but in the fire? She bent her head and laid her face against Mrs Whitley’s shoulder and the old lady put up her bandaged hand to the still damp tangle of her hair, stroking it with infinite tenderness as Meg sobbed and Robert Hemingway was overwhelmed by the deep attachment which appeared to thrive between them.

  He cleared his throat, looking round helplessly and from the shadows where the lamp light did not reach, two figures stepped forward hesitantly, both, it seemed as non-plussed as himself. He put out his hand appealingly to one of them and instantly Tom moved to Meg. He placed his hands on her shoulders and sensing a friend she allowed herself to be lifted to her feet. Turning her he tucked her into the curve of his arms and oblivious now to the others he stroked her hair and held her close, whispering her name until at last she began to calm. She looked up into his face, her own awash with her tears.

  ‘Tell him, Tom,’ she implored him. ‘Tell him what he made us do. Go on …’ but it seemed she could not contain herself, now that she knew that Emm was really gone. She could not wait for Tom to gather his thoughts for her own were alive and throbbing and longing to be released like a boil about to be lanced, needing to expel the evil and noxious matter which lay beneath.

  ‘What did you get out of it, Mr Hemingway? A few extra quid a week? Was it worth it? Was it worth it to let that … that bastard …’ She heard a gasp from the shadows in the corner where she sensed someone else stood but she was not deterred.

  ‘… treat us so inhumanely, especially Mrs Whitley. She’s given a lifetime of loyal service in one house and another, and in this company which you own. She was really too old to work and poorly and she couldn’t pay the rent Harris demanded …’

  ‘Rent …?’ She heard Mr Hemingway draw in his breath sharply on the word but again her own emotions carried her on. She had to get this out or it would destroy her. ‘She’s got nothing now, not even the few bob she’d saved for her old age. He took it all … for coal … and then he took what we had, me an’ Tom an’ Emm.’ Her face contorted and her voice was high and Robert Hemingway fell back, appalled by it all for never, in all his uneventful, protected life had he ever seen such pain and anger. ‘… and now Emm’s dead … in the fire. Economies! That’s what he said they were. Cruel … he was a cruel man … they were all afraid of him … afraid … long hours … low wages … poor food …’ Her voice became a frantic mumble and they all strained to hear as Meg re-lived those dreadful months under Benjamin Harris’ rule.

  Robert Hemingway’s old face was expressionless as he felt the guilt and anger enter his heart. The shame of what he had allowed … yes, allowed, to be done to this child was unbearable. He should have realised it, he saw that now. The strange unease the son of his old school friend had awakened in him should have been recognised. Even yet he did not know why he had put the man in charge of the house in Great George Square. Simply because he had been there when the news of Lloyd’s death had come in, he supposed. Benjamin Harris was not good with people. He did not know how to deal with them for he considered anyone not born to his own station in life to have been put where they were in order to serve him! But he had begged for the chance, as he had done earlier in his career and weakly now, he realised, Robert Hemingway had given in! If it had not been for a fluke – a chance error in the arrangements for an Automobile Trial in Caerphilly in Wales which Martin was to enter – they would not have been home at Silverdale at all and there was no doubt in his mind that the three people before him would have died in the fire because of it. He had seen the way Martin had rallied the other two youngsters, brought them from the terror-stricken trance they had been in. A mistake in the date, his own fault, and they had realised they would be too late for the trials so instead they had motored to Liverpool. A day or so with his Alice, he had thought fondly and a chance for Martin to go over the flyers’ engine and then on to the 1,000 miles trial at the Eleanor Cross, Northampton.

  They had barely had time to stretch their cramped muscles for they had driven for six hours non-stop that day on roads that were, in many cases not much better than cart-tracks when Ferguson had run, run from the house, delighted it seemed to be the bearer of the bad news, just come over the recently installed telephone that there was a fire – ‘Bad, sir, very bad,’ the butler had said with the vicarious pleasure of the onlooker, at Great George Square.

  It was a miracle, Mrs Whitley had insisted as Alice Hemingway had comforted her. A miracle which had brought their Martin to them at that precise moment since, like Robert Hemingway she was of the opinion that only he could have fused the crumbling defences of the other two. ‘Yes, yes, his friends from birth, almost,’ she rattled, still herself in a bad state of shock, Mrs Glynn’s potion not yet having taken effect. It was he who had instilled into them the stalwart resolution which had saved them, she babbled. Without him they would have perished, she insisted, coughing up her old lungs to danger point. Tom had been
courageous as a lion, she said, clinging to Alice Hemingway’s soothing hands, but thank the Good Lord for sending them their Martin. Only He up in Heaven knew how close they had been … she could hardly bear to think of it. But the potion took hold then and she relaxed against the pillows kind Mrs Hemingway plumped up with her own lady’s hands!

  ‘… and he treated Tom like a dog …!’

  ‘Hush, Meggie, it doesn’t matter now.’ Tom tried to soothe Meg, tried to lead her away from the memories which would not rest but she was fixed on the dreadful route which had led, inexorably, she knew that now, to that last foul scene, the air thick with Benjamin Harris’ lust, and she could not be stopped. Her eyes had gone strangely out of focus and her voice had sunk to a whisper and they all leaned forward, straining to hear what she said.

  ‘… like a dog … a dog … and I was to be …’

  Suddenly, as though in realisation of what she had been about to disclose she shuddered so violently it shook her from head to foot. She stepped back from Tom’s restraining hands and put up her own to her face, scrubbing at it, then pushed them through her hair distractedly.