Between Friends Read online

  ‘I was arrested on the day I returned to Liverpool, Megan. The charge was fraud. Can you believe it? The pennies and halfpennies and farthings I had availed myself of, the few guineas I saved were made into a trumped-up charge of fraud. He came to see me in my cell.’ His face became quite mad then and his eyes flickered strangely in their sockets and a fleck of white frothed at the corner of his lips. ‘Have you ever seen the inside of a prison cell, Megan? No? Well, it is not a place I would care to remain in for long. Six months … mixing with the foul dregs of the gutters of Liverpool … Dear God … I thought I should not survive … but I digress …’ His face was sweating and his pallor was quite dreadful now. ‘Yes … but Robert Hemingway came to call whilst I lay on my pallet in the cell I shared with three others. They were cleared out naturally, whilst the great man and I discussed what should be done with me. It seemed, you see, I had deeply offended him by attempting the violation … yes, that was the word he used … the violation of an innocent child.’ He turned to bare his teeth at her again. ‘Yourself Megan, none other, but as he did not wish you to be troubled further he was going to see that I was put away on some charge. He knew the judge, of course. They all help one another, those of the same class and he is a well-known, respected gentleman in Liverpool, is he not? But despite this they could not give me more than six months though Hemingway intimated that he would like me put away for good. Six months, six months of hard labour, Megan, but whilst I was there I met one or two quite interesting characters. I made it my business to become friends with them, knowing that one day they could be of use to me. And that day will come, Megan, because make no mistake, I mean to have compensation. Indeed I do.’

  He smiled as though they were discussing no more than the state of the weather. ‘And it will serve no purpose to tell your friends of this meeting, nor Robert Hemingway, he continued in silken tones, ‘since they will never find me. I am a member of the criminal fraternity now, and they take care of their own. I can vanish just as quietly as I appeared today whereas you, and they, are easily found. You may not see me for weeks, Megan my dear, or even months but hear this and mark it for the truth, you will see me again. You have offended me, dear girl, most grievously, by informing on me and those who offend Benjamin Harris do so at great risk to themselves.’ He grinned wolfishly, ‘So keep looking over your shoulder, my dear for if you should be careless who knows what might happen and one day I will be there, believe me! No-one crosses me, Megan, no-one! You will learn that, by God you will, and that boot boy, too!’

  Megan stood before him, her beauty illuminated by the sunlight. Tawny hair, golden glinted eyes, her skin as fine and flawless as bone china. Her lips were as pale as her skin, completely bloodless and on her young face was the lifeless expression of one who is to be put to the torture. So she had not escaped him after all. The pleasure he had told her was in store for her was to be hers just as he had described it. She was to be … whatever he wanted her to be. Not yet, he said. Not here but it would come when he was ready. When he had played with her for as long as it gave him satisfaction, then he would … he would …

  Suddenly, as he smiled his quite deranged smile she felt something rise within her, up and up until it exploded and she raised her clenched fists, her mouth snarling in its rage. She sprang away from him to stand like a warrior queen, determined to defend herself, or die. Her heart was still bounding in her breast, bursting to break out of the flesh and bone and muscle which held it, but in the centre of her demented terror, her horrified revulsion, the core of outrage which would not let her submit patiently to his demands grew and grew until it swamped all other feelings, even those which warned her to step lightly with this madman who could destroy not only her, but Tom and Mrs Whitley too. He was an object of loathing and if he put a finger on her she would kill him. She was strong and his confinement in prison had obviously weakened him. She had only to reach for a branch, an old piece of wood and he would retreat from her rage like the vicious bully he was. Before she let him touch her she would swing for him. By God, she would.

  ‘You lay a finger on me and I’ll kill you,’ she hissed.

  His lips stretched in his thin smile, then suddenly he began to laugh quite merrily and he even went as far as to slap his leg as though he had never heard such a good joke for years. He stamped his foot and almost did a jig, so great was his mirth.

  ‘Oh dear … oh dear, dear … oh Megan, you surely did not think I … my word, you really thought I meant to avail myself of your splendid body, did you not? You believed that I am to … carry out the arrangement I had in mind for us at Great George Square!’ His expression changed so rapidly she took a step backwards in horror. The laughter vanished and a vicious snarl took its place and his voice grated like two rusted nails rubbing together. ‘By God, girl, did you think it was to be so easy, did you? I don’t want your flesh, not now. I lost my taste for … for it when I was incarcerated with hundreds of men for six months. No, you can rest easy on that score, Megan. Your virginity, if you still have it, is quite safe. It is not that I no longer admire your quite obvious charms, Megan, but they are of no further interest to me. It is your … your future that concerns me and the enjoyment of being able to … control it, so to speak. The thought of it gave me courage and the strength to bear what I had to, in prison, Megan and I wish to savour the anticipation for as long as it pleases me. By jove, it could go on forever you know, or until I consider you have paid your … dues, so watch out for me, Megan. I shall always be there!’

  He raised his hat to her most politely, smiling as he did so then, just as mysteriously as he had come, was gone.

  For a long time she stared at the space where he had been, the trembling in her limbs spreading and spreading until she shook like the aspen tree beside her, then in a graceful, boneless sinking she fell to the ground and wept.

  Chapter Fifteen

  MRS STEWART BEGAN TO speak of promotion to housemaid! The autumn days, the fine, warm autumn peculiar sometimes to England with pale, fragile blue skies, gentle and easy on those who worked indoors and out, went on and on. An Indian summer they were calling it, thankful to put off the coming of winter for as long as possible. The rain, when it came, fell most obligingly during the night, soft and refreshing on the gardens, drying again each sweet morning on the velvet lawns and beading the perfect, carefully tended head of each flower in the garden with clear, diamond drops. The servants were more tranquil, inclined to treat one another amiably, with less of the quarreling which is bound to flare up amongst so many of differing natures who live in close proximity to each other. They were allowed marginally more freedom of movement by the stately, watchful Mrs Stewart, mellowed it seemed by the light tempered days and aware of the imprisoning months to come. They were given permission to walk in pairs of the same sex at the back of the house, unseen naturally, by the family, when their work was completed.

  ‘You may take the evening air with the other girls, Megan,’ Mrs Stewart told her, ‘providing you do not wander to the front of the house, or perhaps you might care to slip over to see Mrs Whitley for half an hour,’ she said graciously. Really the girl had improved beyond recognition during the past weeks, becoming as biddable as Mrs Stewart liked her girls to be, running to do as she was told with a willingness which mystified the housekeeper in view of her first inclination to argue over every order she was given. It seemed, suddenly, all that was now behind her and really, there was no need for the girl to hang about the kitchens in her free time as she did, barely stepping more than a yard or so from the back kitchen door. She was no longer disposed to engage Tom Fraser in conversation whenever she felt like it, Mrs Stewart had noticed and because of it she was quite persuasive in her effort to tempt Megan to leave the cleaning of the silver, which was not her job anyway, and get out and enjoy the lovely evening while she could. It would not last forever, she said, and was quite bewildered when Meg declined politely.

  ‘I was there on Sunday with Tom, thank you Mrs Ste
wart and I believe Mrs Whitley has made arrangements to entertain Jack Tabner and his wife from the home farm. They are to take supper with her, she told me.’

  Made arrangements! Take supper! The girl was quick there was no doubt about it. Already she was picking up the phrases she had heard her betters use and there was an air of … well, Mrs Stewart could only call it refinement about her that had not been there six months ago. She would get on if she minded her manners and that sharp tongue of hers for she had the intelligence and the shrewd mind which was needed in service to take a girl to the top of her profession.

  ‘She has made friends then, Megan?’

  ‘Oh yes ma’am.’ Meg’s serious young face, thinner suddenly than Mrs Stewart remembered it, wondering why she had failed to notice it before, softened and she let her vigorously polishing hands rest for a moment on the green baize cloth which was spread out on the table in the butler’s pantry in which the plate was stored and cleaned. Hartshorn power was mixed into a thick paste with cold water – an old fashioned method but very effective – which was smeared lightly over the plate with a piece of soft rag then left to dry. When this was done a soft plate brush was used to clean it off, then the plate was polished with a dry leather. The job was performed by one of the footmen directly under the supervision of Mr Ferguson, the butler but Mr Ferguson was in Liverpool at this particular time it being his day off and William, the footman had been only too pleased to take up Meg’s offer to clean the plate. Mr Ferguson would not have allowed it and Mrs Stewart was uneasy somehow over Meg’s insistence that she was perfectly willing to do it for surely a young girl should be eager to be off into the fading sweetness of the evening with the other maidservants. It didn’t seem quite … natural when one remembered how restless the girl had once been.

  ‘And she is happy in her cottage?’

  ‘Oh yes Mrs Stewart. She loves it there. She’s always got someone or other dropping in to taste her macaroons or ratafias.’ The slightly strained expression left Meg’s face and she smiled up at Mrs Stewart and the housekeeper was startled by the golden beauty of the girl’s eyes. She wore the rough cotton dress of a kitchen-maid, a coarse apron protecting it and her glorious copper hair was dragged back from her creamy face and stuffed into a plain white cap. It was as though she was deliberately quenching her own warm spirit, presenting to the household only her facility to work hard and long, to show only her strength and containment and sudden strange reserve. Her hands were still now, one holding an enormous silver soup ladle, the other the leather with which she had been polishing it.

  ‘She’s a good cook, Mrs Stewart and I think she misses having no-one to prepare meals for. She’s always making cakes and biscuits and giving them to anyone who knocks on her door and word soon gets round, especially amongst the children of the estate workers. She can’t get used to the idea that Martin and Tom and I are well fed and she’s always baking pies and scones for us to bring back.’

  Mrs Stewart smiled. ‘Well, why don’t you run across there now, Megan,’ she persisted, surprising even herself. ‘It’s a lovely evening and would take you no more than five minutes if you went through the spinney.’

  Instantly the smiling warmth in Meg’s face slipped away and she took up her leather and began again to energetically polish the ladle.

  ‘No, really, thank you, Mrs Stewart. As I said she has guests and I did promise William I would do this silver.’

  The next month, a couple of days before her sixteenth birthday Megan Hughes was told that in view of her exemplary behaviour; her conscientious application to her duties and the trust Mrs Stewart felt could now be placed in her she was to be ‘made up’ to housemaid, a big step for her and one not popular with the kitchen-maids who had been passed over. She was to be put in the charge of Ethel, the upper housemaid at Silverdale for five years now and who had herself worked her way up from scullery-maid to her present post. She would be given three months trial to see how she ‘shaped’ herself, she was told. Perfect order and cleanliness must be her object, Mrs Stewart said. Her duties would be numerous and the comfort of the family must be her main concern. Grates must be polished and the utensils for this job would be kept in her own housemaid’s box and she would see to the lighting of the fires, along with Jenny and Rose, in all the downstairs rooms.

  At last she had her own position, her own duties and her own utensils with which to perform them and they would be no-ones responsibility but hers! Megan was jubilant!

  She was to start with the dusting of the furniture, sweeping the carpets, the stairs, the polishing of windows, all the dozens of rooms, large and small; drawing-room, dining-room, study, the library with its thousands of books, breakfast room, sitting-room, hallways and the great square entrance which made up the ground floor of Silverdale. The bedrooms and magnificent modern bathrooms on the first and second floors of the Hemingway home were cared for by the chambermaids and on no account was Megan to wander into their domain. She was to wear a lavender cotton uniform with a white starched apron, white cap and ribbons and if one of the family should come upon her at her work she was to bob her curtsey and vanish immediately into the nearest hiding place, taking herself out of their sight until it should be convenient to return. When they rang she was to answer the bell and make up the fire and fetch fresh coals if they should be needed.

  Megan would always remember her first sight of the luxurious elegance and comfort of the house in which Robert Hemingway and his family lived. Nothing had prepared her for it. The sheer beauty of gilt framed mirrors and sparkling chandeliers! Carved mahogany and gleaming silkwood and deep velvet! Marble fireplaces and huge bay windows overlooking the glory of the gardens, the balustraded terraces, the flights of stone steps and deep green lawns with not a chimney or roof, not even another human being to interrupt the splendid view down to the river.

  There were clocks in ormolu and enamel pot-pourri vases of Sèvres and Meissen and Coalport, though at that time she did not knew their names. Chairs and sofas and delicate spindle-legged tables and portraits of handsome men and beautiful ladies. Crystal lamps and porcelain figurines, heavy flowered curtains and miles and miles of carpet so thick and exquisite Meg was afraid to walk on them.

  She was led lastly into what Ethel called the ‘winter garden’ and Meg saw with her own eyes the loveliness of the ‘glass room’ which Martin had tried to describe to them.

  ‘This floor’s to be cleaned and polished every day but you’re not to touch the plants,’ Ethel said in her forthright manner, ‘or Mrs Hemingway’ll have your hide, not to mention old Atkinson. It’s what you call ‘parquet’ – Ethel pronounced it parket – flooring and Mrs Stewart likes to see her face in it.’

  Ethel was brisk, matter of fact, accustomed it seemed to the handsome proportions and breathtaking beauty as she showed Megan from room to room on that first morning. It was barely six-thirty for all the cleaning must be completed before the family breakfasted, Meg was told. She was not allowed to stand and stare as her spellbound senses demanded but must be on her knees at once before the drawing room grate, removing the ashes from yesterday’s fire and laying and lighting today’s. The hearth must be swept and polished before moving on to the next, working in perfect unison with Jenny and Rose who were employed in dusting, polishing and sweeping the carpets. Ethel ‘did’ the ornaments in her privileged capacity as head housemaid.

  She did well, Mrs Stewart told her. She was neat and quick and self-effacing. She moved about her new sphere with the instinctive grace and care of someone who loves fine things and her work, hard as it was, became a joy to her. She took pride in the high shine she put on rosewood and mahogany loo tables, on chiffoniers and card tables and pedestal and celleret sideboards, the names of which she had never known until she began to care for them. Her hands were gentle and dexterous as they cleaned the soft apple green, the biscuit and wedgwood blue and madder of the plaster relief which adorned the high and beautiful ceilings, all set about with scrolls, wreaths, fan
tracery, medallions and festoons of leaves and flowers, and her windows sparkled like crystal when she had done. To handle the exquisite Wedgwood urns – when Ethel allowed it – the white biscuit porcelain, the Meissen bowls which were scattered so carelessly about the drawing-room delighted her and she took enormous care in dusting and replacing them, not perhaps exactly where they had been, but where Megan Hughes thought they looked best! No-one seemed to notice, least of all Ethel who was glad to have the services of such a good worker, she said.

  ‘I’m going to try you in the drawing-room, Megan,’ Mrs Stewart said when her three months was up, for really the girl was wasted in merely cleaning. She was a credit to her training and with her restrained comeliness, her immaculate appearance and neat efficiency she knew that Mrs Hemingway would be pleased to have Megan about her. ‘Just serving tea to start with in the drawing-room or the winter garden. You will have a black silk dress and a white frilled apron and cap. Agnes will show you what to do. Speak when you are spoken to and not before. The mistress will ring for tea at four. The tray will be prepared by the kitchen staff but you will hand it round to the company after the mistress has poured the tea or coffee, and Agnes will pass round the cakes and biscuits. You will be parlourmaid, Megan. Do you think you can manage that?’

  ‘Yes Mrs Stewart.’

  ‘Good girl.’

  Megan moved through that winter with the passive and yet vigilant watchfulness that her meeting with Benjamin Harris had produced in her. Though she had challenged his authority over her then, defying him bravely she was not absolutely certain that if she should encounter him again as he had promised, she would be able to do it again. She could tell Mr Hemingway, she supposed, which had been her first instinct when she had recovered from the fright he had given her, but then she had done that the last time and look where that had got her! She was more in danger now than she had been then for Harris’ stay in prison had turned his mind to revenge and she, or Tom, were to be his targets. She would tell Tom and Martin, she decided but each time she made up her mind to it Harris’ face would come between her and her intentions, his dreadfully cold and glinting grey eyes which told her he meant everything he had said and the words he had spoken would ring in her head, repeating over and over again his threat against Tom. In his capacity as gardener and general handyman about the Silverdale estate Tom often worked alone and far from the house and it would be a simple matter for a couple of the ‘criminal fraternity’ Harris had talked about to slip into the woods and catch him, cripple him! And there was Mrs Whitley to consider. She lived alone in her cottage down by the gate and though the lodge keeper and his wife were within shouting distance she was old and frail and just the sight of Harris could kill her. Her only protection, it seemed to Meg, was silence and the immediate safety of the house. And yet, was it rational to believe it would happen?