Between Friends Page 24

  Chapter Sixteen

  THEY MADE A striking couple, very young that was obvious and the girl was wide-eyed with wonder as though she was bemused by the splendour of it but they were well dressed, both of them and not out of place.

  The Adelphi Hotel, ‘the Delly’ in the idiom of the native Liverpuddlian, was the most prestigious, the most well-appointed, the most elegant hotel outside of London with a staff of over 200 to serve the 250 rooms, including private rooms, parlours, sitting-rooms and apartments, the prices for which could be as high – with food and wine and any delicacy a guest might care to order – as one hundred pounds a day! There were two chefs, one English, one French and thirty cooks, specialists most of them in the making of pastry, entrées and sauces, four bookkeepers, a housekeeper, a linen-keeper and eighteen porters.

  The building was extensive, magnificent, with a restaurant which could cater for some 120 persons at one sitting, the cost, again, high for a meal. Five guineas it could amount to and that was without wine! Many of the items were wired from Paris; the strawberries, for instance which were that night on the menu, and asparagus since the untold visitors from many parts of the world who sailed in and out of the great seaport on her luxurious passenger liners, the sportsmen, the aristocracy, royalty – for had not certain members of the Royal family stayed there when visiting or passing through Liverpool – princes of foreign royal households, ambassadors from Washington, all the well-to-do who stayed in the fine hotel, demanded, simply, the best!

  ‘Your table is ready, sir,’ the maître d’hôtel told Martin, his face smooth and expressionless, well used it appeared to serving young men such as he and the very young but lovely girl who accompanied him. The gentleman, one supposed, was quite at home in the glittering white and gold and ruby splendour of the Drawing Room, the decorations of which were a replica of those of a similar room in the Pétit Trianon, Versailles, as he and his companion drank a pale sherry before dining but the young lady stared about her quite openly, her strange golden eyes drinking in every costly, elegant, comfortable detail.

  She was very simply dressed, the head waiter noted in a floor length one-piece dress of pale cream chiffon over cream satin. The neckline was scooped out quite demurely as befitted her age and the sleeves were short. It had an overtunic of the same material which reached to her knees, the very latest fashion and just below her softly rounded breast was a narrow sash of gold satin. He would have been quite amazed to learn, had he been told, that she had made it herself, the cost with the tiny pearl buttons which flowed in a line down the curve of her back, a mere two and eleven pence halfpenny, the material a roll end from Paddy’s Market! Bon Marché sold it – the one from which she had copied it – for forty-nine shillings and sixpence! She wore no jewellery and needed none to enhance her young, undimmed loveliness.

  Her escort wore a dinner jacket, double-breasted and unbuttoned, ready made, the head waiter could tell for had not he served the best dressed gentlemen of the world in his restaurant and knew the difference, but immaculate and looking quite splendid on his well-proportioned athlete’s body.

  They stood up and the young man gallantly offered the girl his arm.

  ‘Megan,’ he said softly and she put her hand in it. They followed the important, black-suited figure of the maître d’hôtel, moving past darting, crimson coated porters and attendants in the hall, sauntering visitors come to see and be seen in their Paris gowns and glittering jewels, suave gentlemen and soignée ladies on their way from one exotic place to another and glad to find a ‘decent’ place to stay en route. The wealthy of Liverpool who, now that it was fashionable to eat out, as they did in London, rather than entertain in their own homes, had been driven in their new motor cars, leaving them in the care of their chauffeurs whilst they dined. They were floating, like fairy spirits, or so it seemed to Meg, up and down the handsome grand staircase, the lovely colour of the carpets, the furnishings, the drifting gowns of the elegant ladies all heightened by the miracle of the electric lights which gleamed everywhere.

  The first Adelphi Hotel was opened in 1826, a squat, three-storeyed building in the Georgian style of architecture. It was situated in a charming residential thoroughfare, at the foot of Mount Pleasant, which led to the Botanic Gardens and the open countryside beyond. The great writer Charles Dickens had stayed there en route to America and was reputed to have said of the dinner he was served that it was ‘undeniably perfect’! The history of the hotel during the Victorian era might be said to be the history of Liverpool itself for as commerce and shipping increased so did the fortunes of the hotel. The railway adjacent to it, also helped to account for its unbroken record of popularity and prosperity and in 1876, to meet the ever-widening circle of its clientele the hotel was entirely rebuilt. Its magnificence was undisputed. Five storeys high with a splendid pillared entrance, its arched windows looked out on Ranelagh Place with all the superiority of a king’s palace.

  Meg gasped quite audibly as she and Martin entered the restaurant. She could not have said later what exquisite pastel colours had been used to pick out the delicate carvings of acanthus leaves and garlands on the walls and high ceiling. She could not have described the richness of the light fittings and chandeliers, the sumptuous elegance of plate and silverware glittering on snow white damask cloth and napery. She had been introduced now to the luxury of the Hemingway home ‘above stairs’ and the extraordinarily beautiful, but to the family, everyday objects which crowded it but the sight of gracefully arranged, daintily set tables, decorated with flowers which had been put on display by the hand of an artist; the velvet, round-backed chairs on which gloriously gowned ladies and immaculately tailored gentleman were seated, temporarily stunned her. Everywhere was glitter and colour and movement and the murmur of well bred voices. There was the subdued chink of silver on porcelain and over all lay the delicious aroma of the finest French cuisine.

  ‘This way, sir,’ the waiter said politely for though he was not certain of the young lady, the young gentleman appeared to be at his ease and it did no harm, in fact it was the policy of the hotel, to show courtesy to those it served whatever their apparent station in life.

  They were seated, a pleasant table for two beside a draped window which overlooked the lights and night life of Ranelagh Place before Megan could bring herself to speak. The head waiter had moved away, bowing his head and at the same time summoning another waiter with a barely perceptible movement of his gloved hand. She watched him weave his way between the tables, stopping to speak to one seated person and another, his smiling face begging to be told how he might make their stay more enjoyable and as he did so she began to laugh.

  ‘Now what?’ Martin leaned forward, beginning to smile for really she did look a ‘corker’ as the new language of ‘slang’ put it.

  ‘Who does he remind you of?’

  Martin turned to peer at the retreating back of the maître d’hôtel, then looked into her own impish face.

  ‘Ferguson!’ They both spoke laughingly together and those about them, both men and women turned to stare reprovingly, at the youthful high spirits of the young lady and her escort.

  They had sampled the hors d’oeuvres, Meg encouraged by Martin who said airily he had tried them in Savannah and found them nothing to write home about and certainly not a patch on Meg’s own oyster patties but you had to try everything once, didn’t she agree? She did, most seriously, pleased with his remark about her own cooking and when they moved on to the consommé julienne, she considered Mrs Whitley’s thick pea a lot more substantial! They tried whitebait and grouse and bombe Leslie – who was Leslie, did Martin think? – pétits fours, strawberries and a dish with peaches in it which was delicious, coffee and, at Martin’s insistence a liquer.

  She was quite relaxed by then, the sherry, the glass of wine Martin had pressed on her and the liquer combining to make her pleasantly light-headed, voluble though not loudly so, flushed with laughter and utterly beautiful. Martin could not take his eyes fro
m her!

  It had taken all his powers of persuasion to make her go with him. She had been suspicious, for Jenny, the pretty young housemaid with whom she worked at times had talked of nothing else, almost hysterical with excitement, of the wonder of her evening out with Martin; of what she would wear at the Adelphi – The Adelphi! just think of it – of how handsome Martin was and what a man of the world he was, and how witty he was and did Meg think she should do her’ hair this way or that, and if Mrs Stewart should find out she would lose her job for the servants were not allowed to ‘walk out’ with another member of staff! She was to meet him at the gates, she said, where he would pick her up in the Vauxhall, her in a motor car, she said wildly and Meg thought she was about to swoon with the sheer joy of it!

  She was in tears an hour later, her outing to the Adelphi with Martin postponed, she said. He was to go on an errand into town on Mr Hemingway’s behalf, she said, wiping her nose forlornly on her sleeve her bright blue eyes dulled with misery, her hopes in ashes one supposed, for Martin was off to Scotland in the morning and a good-looking chap like him would have the girls after him like bees to honey and now her chance was lost.

  ‘I’ve booked us a table at the Adelphi for tonight, Meg,’ he said carelessly when another hour had gone by, knowing nothing of poor pretty Jenny’s confidences to Meg, catching her as she slipped out of the kitchen to fetch a silver soup tureen from the footman’s pantry and was quite put out when Meg turned to stare at him in amazement.

  ‘You’ve what?’

  ‘I thought you might like to have a night out before I go off to Scotland so I’ve booked a table at the Adelphi. Put your best frock on and you and me’ll “do the town” as they say in the States!’

  ‘Oh do they indeed? And what do they call it when you ask one girl to go out with you and then let her down for another, telling lies into the bargain about errands to be done for your employer?’

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘You heard.’

  ‘I don’t know what …’

  ‘Oh yes you do! I’ve had nothing but Martin this and Martin that from Jenny since the minute you got back. Now she’s in tears because you’ve suddenly got to go into town for Mr Hemingway. What’s going on then, our Martin?’

  Martin looked abashed then grinned audaciously. In the four years since he had started work for Robert Hemingway, first as his mechanic/chauffeur and then as that special and quite astonishing creature, a motor car racing driver, he had become a complete man. Young still in years, his experiences, on and off the racing track had changed him considerably. Behind the wheel of his racing car he was a machine to match the one he drove. Steady eyes and hands and nerves, and the power to make split second decisions had induced in him a belief in himself which showed in his easy carriage, his relaxed and quite unthinking air of authority. The danger, the likelihood of injury or even death, though it was part of his life did not signify for he was young, immortal and this belief gave him a dash, an élan which set him apart from other men. He had always been an attractive boy and youth with abundant charm for the ladies which had made seduction not only comfortably easy but enjoyable for himself and his partner. He never made the mistake of taking this style he had for granted treating each new love with a sensitivity and pleasure which, when the relationship ended left no bitterness on either side, rather a memory of excitement and sweetness. He had learned from these brief encounters and built upon them and his liking for, his genuine admiration of pretty women was apparent in his treatment of them. He was polished, easy with himself and yet not self-complacent, an adult and yet boyishly engaging. His virility was beyond question. It showed in his confident manner, his vibrant and often audacious wit and the agreeable but very positive approach he took with every woman he found attractive. He was headstrong and proud, sometimes arrogant for he had achieved so much and wanted more, not only in the world of motor cars but also from the women that world had put in his way. But his brown face would smile and his brown eyes glow warmly in admiration and when his lips curled in that certain way they had, they lifted the corners of his mouth into what each woman was sure was the beginning of a laughing kiss meant irresistibly for her.

  Now Martin put his slender, workmanlike hands, still ingrained with the oil from the engine of the Hemingway flyer (which had arrived only that morning by ship from New York) about Meg’s waist and began to whirl her around the confines of the small pantry in a fair imitation of a waltz but she would have none of it.

  ‘Give over, Martin! Let go of me at once!’ She was stiff with offended outrage and her hands slapped at his. ‘What the hell d’you think you’re doing? If Mr Ferguson catches us he’ll have my job for sure. And what are you doing in the house? You know how particular he is about inside and outside servants …’

  ‘I’m not “outside”, Meggie.’ His grin was endearing as though he was perfectly certain she would forgive him as Mr Ferguson would forgive him, for could he be resisted!

  ‘So what are you, pray?’ she asked, then, as though realising she was being diverted from her original complaint she pushed him away and, raising her hands to her hair in the age old gesture of a woman seriously displeased with the pranks of the man who had disarranged her she moved huffily away from him, intent, one assumed, on returning immediately to her duties.

  ‘Oh come on, Meg, don’t be mad at me. I know I told Jenny I would take her but … well …’ His deep brown eyes softened and melted and despite herself, surprising herself, Meg hesitated, drawn back to him into the cool dimness of the pantry. ‘You see … you’ll think I’m daft but …’

  ‘What …?’

  ‘I had this idea …’

  ‘What …?’ She took another step towards him her curiosity, always impossible to repress getting the better of her.

  ‘Everywhere I’ve gone I’ve always been with Mr Hemingway. Good hotels, restaurants, and he’s taken charge, naturally, after all he was paying and I am his employee. Wherever we stay it’s always the best. Oh, I know I don’t have the standard of room he has but I often eat with him and I’ve watched him and listened to him go through the menu with the waiter. I’ve seen him study the wine list and decide what to drink with what and I made up my mind …’

  ‘What, Martin?’ She was quite absorbed as he had intended.

  ‘… that it was time I did it. Just walk into some posh place, demand the best table and be exactly like he is. Like they all are! Order what I fancy and if I don’t like the way it’s cooked, send it back to the kitchens just as I’ve seen him do! Why not? I’ve got the money to do it now, not often but I can see no reason why I … we … shouldn’t do it now and again do you?’

  His face was absolutely certain of it and his eyes glowed into hers with all the unhesitating conviction which his months of travel with Robert Hemingway and his own complete and undisputed confidence in himself had given to him. He lifted his chin arrogantly then something in him, perhaps for the last time, remembered that he was a boy who had no past, no name bar the one given him at the orphanage where he had been abandoned as a baby, and the expression on his face became curiously vulnerable, shy almost, and he put out both hands, taking one of hers between them.

  ‘Share it with me, Meg, this first time. I’d rather be with someone I know, someone who knows me, knows what I’ve been and where I’ve come from. Someone who knows what I’ve achieved and where I’m going. You understand, Meggie, you always have. You’ll know what it means to me, without being impressed, or overawed as Jenny would be. She’s alright, good fun and all that but …’

  Meg shifted impatiently, not knowing why the mention of Jenny and her talent for ‘fun’ should irritate her but Martin saw it and hastily took another tack, quite well aware that no woman wishes to hear the qualities of another.

  ‘… but she’s not such good company as you and it’d be the first time for us both. An experience we’ve never had, never even dreamed of when we were at Great George Square! Imagine us dining at the “Delly�
� all dressed up in our Sunday best letting the rest of ’em see what orphanage kids can do when they’ve a mind to, what d’you say?’

  ‘Well …’ but he knew she was willing, had known long before she did that his power of inducement, well tested and practised upon would win her round for didn’t it always, with all women! Besides, was he not doing as Mrs Whitley and Tom had asked him to do? Had they not begged him to find out what was going on in Meg’s secret mind these past months. Why she had become the compliant, unfathomable, seemingly tireless workhorse who, besides the passion for work on which she had always thrived, bore no resemblance to the light-hearted Megan Hughes they had once known.

  Her face had come alive with excitement and she leaned towards him in the most delightful way and he could smell some fragrance about her which he did not recognise but found extremely pleasing. Her eyes, as he had seen them do a thousand times when she was happy changed to a flashing, golden warmth and her soft pink mouth, full and moist, parted on a sigh.

  ‘The “Delly”! Lord, I can’t believe it! You and me and Tom at the “Delly”! D’you really mean it, Martin, because if this is one of your daft jokes I’ll not forgive you. You’re not having me on, are you? D’you mean it, gospel, our kid?’

  Jenny was forgotten. She was nothing to do with Meg and Martin and Tom who were a separate, complete unit, set apart from the rest of the servants, the household, the rest of the world even, by the circumstance of their close upbringing!

  Martin’s face became uncertain and he opened his mouth to protest for there had been no thought in his mind of taking Tom with them to dine at the Adelphi. He did not stop to wonder why, nor even to question his own objection, he only knew that the image of dining alone in the opulence of the best restaurant in the north of England with this amazingly radiant creature appealed to the masculine in him. The predatory male though God alone knew why for was she not only ‘their Meggie’? She was gazing at him with the rapture of a child who has been granted a peep into a fairy grotto and it filled him with a strange but quite gratifying piquancy. Tom was a good fellow and they had been friends, brothers even for a long time and Martin would defend him with his life if it was needed but on this one occasion, this one evening he felt the desire to have Meg to himself. To talk to her and tell her of his plans since there was no-one more interested – was there? – than Meg. He wanted to find out – didn’t he? – what she was up to, did she have hopes for the future since he knew that of the two of them she was more ambitious, more like himself than Tom. Tom was … was settled, happy as a pig in muck in the very job he was doing. He would have nothing to say that he hadn’t said a dozen times before on the benefit of a steady job and a place to put your feet up with people you liked about you. Careless and carefree was Tom and he’d think nowt a pound to the Adelphi, or so Martin told himself. Besides, he’d not have a decent suit let alone a dinner jacket!