Between Friends Read online

  She was free!

  ‘Come in, Megan, come in,’ Mr Hemingway said when she knocked on his study door, beckoning to her to stand before him by the side of the enormous fire which burned in the hearth. He had a cigar and a glass of whiskey on the table at his left hand. He had eaten a splendid dinner which she herself had helped to serve and he was in the mood, if it was in his power, to dispense largesse to anyone who asked it of him.

  ‘Ferguson tells me you wish to speak to me.’

  Ferguson had been most put out when she had asked his permission to have a word with the master, quite furious when she had told him it was a private matter and she would prefer a private interview!

  ‘I can speak for you, girl, if you will tell me what it is about.’ His lofty disdain was very evident for was she not merely a parlourmaid and clearly, his expression seemed to say, would be better served if she were to confide in him and let him negotiate for her. Perhaps she was of the opinion she might get a rise in pay, or better conditions, promotion even, if she spoke personally to the master. Ferguson liked to know exactly what went on, not just in the household he ran but in the minds of those whose manipulator he was and Meg’s defiance of him rankled.

  ‘Thank you, Mr Ferguson,’ Meg said, her expression stubborn, ‘but I must speak to Mr Hemingway myself.’

  She did not fidget, nor show signs of nervousness but stood quietly before him, pretty as a picture Robert Hemingway thought in her simple black and white maid’s outfit. The fire’s glow and the soft electric lamplight burnished her hair to the brightness of copper. It was pulled back and up severely, a huge chignon held at the crown of her head with neat, unobtrusive combs but here and there a vagrant curl had escaped to drift to the nape of her neck and over her ears. Her cap – how did it stay on that thick and springing mass, he thought? – was frilled and most becoming and in the gentle light he could see the rose flush in her creamy skin at the cheekbone and the brilliant, excited glow in her eyes, the only sign she showed of her emotion.

  ‘Now then, Megan, what can I do for you? You have no complaints, I trust.’ His eyes twinkled merrily for he had not forgotten her heated defence of Mrs Whitley over a year ago.

  ‘Oh none, sir. I have been most … most comfortable here.’

  ‘Comfortable Megan? Not happy?’

  She would not lie but neither did she want to appear ungrateful.

  ‘My time here has been most useful, sir and it is you I have to thank for it but now I have to move on …’

  ‘Move on, Megan! What on earth do you mean? You have a home here with us, surely? Mrs Stewart, so my wife tells me, speaks most highly of you and it is clear you have a future before you. Like Hunter you are a hard worker but you also have a quick mind, as he does and the two qualities combined will enable you to reach a good position in the household …’

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ she interrupted politely, ‘but that’s not what I want!’

  ‘What do you want, Megan?’ His old face was quite astounded. He was of the generation in which the female sex had two choices. To be married and bear children, supported by a husband, or to go into service. Of course in the industrial areas there were women who worked in factories and mills but not nice little things like Megan who was as well mannered and decently brought up, in a different way of course, as his own wife. She and Hunter and that other lad – what was his name? – were a credit to the orphanage and to old Mrs Whitley who had continued their training and he had thought all three to be decently settled! Now, here was Megan wanting to be off and Hunter, for the past month or two pestering him – could you credit it – for flying lessons of all things, and a year in which to design and build his own racing car! He did not expect fulsome thanks for what he had done for the three of them, far from it for they had all turned out to be keen, conscientious workers. He had derived enormous pleasure from Hunter’s enthusiasm and talent for racing the motor car and from his quite extraordinary ability to be good company when they were alone together on their travels, which was often. He had turned out well and was fast becoming quite the young gentleman but Robert Hemingway was not entirely certain he wished to be involved with the hair-raising and extremely unstable pastime of flying!

  But Megan was standing here, obviously eager to tell him what she now needed and he supposed he must listen.

  ‘Well?’ he said gently.

  ‘I have thought about this for a long time, Mr Hemingway. I have not considered it lightly, nor on impulse.’ She had evidently rehearsed what she would say to him carefully. ‘I dare say I could manage it without you for I am not without a tongue in my head and I am certain I could convince whoever is in charge to consider me. Despite this I would be grateful if you would give me a “character” and perhaps use your influence to help me. I wish to apply for a position at the Adelphi Hotel, you see. I wish to go into the hotel business, Mr Hemingway, sir, that is what I wish to do!’ Her young face was in deadly earnest and Robert Hemingway suppressed the desire to smile. The hotel business! What on earth was she talking about? She would do exactly there what she did here with no higher expectation than housekeeper and under much more stringent control. There would be no ‘family’ atmosphere as there was in this house. She would work hard and long, starting as she had done here, he supposed, as kitchen maid. He had no real knowledge himself of the running of an hotel but he imagined it would be not much different from a large house so why on earth did she want to move?

  ‘Why Megan?’ he said. ‘What can it offer you that we cannot?’

  ‘I want to own my own hotel, sir. One day!’ Her face was very serious.

  Dear God, substitute the word ‘hotel’ for that of ‘motor car’ and it might be Hunter speaking. Were the two of them in league? Had they got together and dreamed up this preposterous nonsense between them of motor cars and hotels and going into business on their own account, flying high on their youthful enthusiasm, or were they, perhaps, two of the most extraordinary youngsters he had ever had the fortune – or was it misfortune? – to come across? He didn’t know, really, he only knew that the child was looking at him trustingly, quite certain that he would not smile, nor frown but would take her at face value, believing, that she was quite, quite serious. After all his own sister, the well-known, still active Mrs James Osborne, Lacy Hemingway that was, had made her way in a world filled with male scepticism of the female ability to do anything other than breed their sons!

  ‘It has been in my mind for a long time, sir, but I did not know where to start … that is until I was taken … well, sir, I dined at the Adelphi some time ago …’ Like Mrs Stewart, Robert Hemingway marvelled at Megan Hughes’ choice of words, her phrasing for she sounded like no parlourmaid he had ever spoken with. ‘… and it was then that it came to me that the only way to begin was at the beginning. In other words, at the bottom, sir. I was brought up in the hotel trade, in a manner of speaking …’

  ‘You were!’ The old gentleman was quite astounded.

  ‘Oh yes sir. What else could you call the house at Great George Square, if not an hotel. Oh, not in the same class as the Adelphi …’ She smiled infectiously, ‘… but what we did in Great George Square is exactly what is done in any hotel. We had guests who must be made comfortable. They had clean beds to sleep in and good food to eat and were treated courteously. I know that is a very simple way of putting it, Mr Hemingway, but can you tell me I am wrong. They did not eat hors d’oeuvres or paté or pétits fours but what they did eat was well cooked and presented. They did not sleep between silk sheets or walk on velvet carpets but they were warm and comfortable and clean. And I liked them, sir, and they liked me.’ It was said simply with no intention to boast. ‘I got on well with them though I could speak no more than a few words of their language. It gave me a good feeling to see them made … tranquil and at ease and to know that I had given that to them. But at the same time I am a good … a good housekeeper, sir. I can budget. I know how to … what’s the word … balance comfort with profit,
combine the two, if you know what I mean. So you see, sir, Great George Square, the Adelphi Hotel, the travellers’ needs are always the same, whatever their class. And now, since I have worked here at Silverdale I have seen what … if you will pardon my frankness … what luxury is! I have seen the food that is cooked and served to those who would stay at an hotel like the Adelphi. I have discussed wines with Mr Ferguson …’

  ‘Ferguson! Good God …’ Robert Hemingway’s mouth fell open.

  ‘Yes sir. Now I realise I have a lot to learn but what I am saying is I already know a lot. And I know that I want to be a hotelier!’

  He was silent for so long Megan thought he had dozed off in the way the elderly have. His face was in shadow and she could not see the sharp interest in his eyes.

  ‘Sir,’ she said tentatively.

  ‘Yes, Megan. I am still here. Now tell me just what you want of me?’

  ‘I want a job at the Adelphi Hotel, Mr Hemingway.’

  ‘I see, and what position would you like?’ He smiled good humouredly for it crossed his mind that if she said manager, and got it, she would have tackled it with the enthusiasm of César Ritz, the genius who ran Europe’s finest hotel, named after him, in London, but Meg was needing none of his light manner. This was her start. This was to be the first step on the ladder she would climb and she did not intend to have jokes made about it. Mr Hemingway had been very good to her, to all of them, more than good really, for there were not many gentlemen who would have taken the trouble he had with three refugees as she and Tom and Mrs Whitley had been. He had eased her own way that night, through the pain and despair Benjamin Harris had inflicted on her, sharing the dead weight which draped her shoulders and had tried, in his anger at what she had gone through, to punish the culprit. He had done his best. He had given her an arm to lean on and a fresh start when she had rested, but now she wanted him to do this one last thing for her. After that she would make it on her own.

  ‘I don’t care what I do, Mr Hemingway, as long as it gives me a chance to get on. All I want is a job there, any job and I’ll show whoever is in charge what I’m made of. A reference is what I want sir, and perhaps a word from you. The word of an important gentleman does nobody any harm, Mr Hemingway.’ She dimpled and dropped her eyelashes demurely and Robert Hemingway was made fully aware that Megan Hughes was not averse to resorting to a bit of flattery if it got her what she wanted. She knew how to work, to work hard and to learn from it. She was skilled in the art of how to get on with those above her. She had a good head on her shoulders and knew how to use it and by God she deserved a helping hand. His Alice would be sorry to see her go for a good servant such as Megan was hard to come by but really, it would be interesting to see how far she could get.

  She started on the first of October. A kitchen-maid, the housekeeper said, sniffing, for it had got round that the new girl had been spoken for by one of Liverpool’s most influential gentlemen and what might that mean, they all wondered. She was pretty enough and when she arrived at the staff entrance on that first day she was smartly dressed in a dove grey skirt and jacket with a white ruffled jabot at her neck. Her hat was large and fashionable with a drooping brim and a white tulle rose pinned to the side. Completely unsuitable Megan knew for a kitchen-maid but she was Megan Hughes and this was the way she liked to dress – they were not to know she had made the outfit herself from a remnant bought at St Johns Market – and she was damned if she would arrive at her new job looking like a little brown mouse just to suit others. Start as you mean to go on, Mrs Whitley always said and that was what she was doing. Elegant she looked in a way they could not understand for surely – she could see it in their manner – if she was the fancy piece of a rich gentleman of the city she would hardly be working as a skivvy in the kitchen of the ‘Delly’.

  Within five minutes she was out of her lovely costume which was hung away carefully in the cubicle she was to share with another maid and, draped in a cap and apron three sizes too large for her, was on her knees scrubbing, a position she was to maintain for the next six weeks. She was polite, willing and self-effacing and if she went off to meet her ‘paramour’ those about her could never determine when, for she seemed to be in ten places at the same time, helping someone or other, forever asking questions and her room mate swore she spent the whole of each night in heavy and exhausted sleep!

  ‘Now then, Megan,’ the housekeeper in charge of the first floor said to her as she swept by one morning. Meg was on her knees, up to her elbows in a bucket of hot water in which caustic soda formed a large part and her mind was concerned mainly with the problem of how she was ever to restore her hands and forearms to some semblance of the white softness they had known as Mrs Hemingway’s parlourmaid. Then she had worn gloves. Gloves to polish and clean and dry the beautiful bone china and lead crystal glasses and at night she had applied the sweet smelling salve made up for her by Mrs Hemingway’s own personal maid with whom she had been on friendly terms for those who waited personally on the mistress could not appear with red and chapped hands.

  ‘Come along to my office, Megan, quickly girl,’ the housekeeper said, continuing on her way past the open-mouthed kitchen maid. ‘See … Nellie …’ She summoned a gawky girl who had been about to slip off for a cup of tea and who stood riveted in the doorway. ‘… finish this floor and look sharp about it. Now follow me Megan … oh, and remove that cap and apron first, if you please.’

  She was not asked to sit down nor did the housekeeper waste time.

  ‘I believe you have worked as housemaid and parlourmaid, Megan,’ she said crisply.

  ‘Yes ma’am.’ Megan knew better than to answer with more than the absolute minimum words necessary.

  ‘For how long?’

  ‘A year, ma’am.’

  ‘Then why are you on your knees on the kitchen floor, if you please?’

  ‘I was put there, ma’am.’

  ‘So I see. Well in future you will work under my supervision. I shall give you a week to show me what you can do and if you do not suit you will be back at your scrubbing pail.’

  ‘Yes ma’am, thank you.’ She hesitated, breaking a cardinal rule which said never speak unless spoken to and then only with the shortest possible answer. There was no time in the busy, one might say hectic day in the life of an hotel such as this for idle chatter.

  ‘Yes Megan? You wish to say something?’ The housekeeper looked imperiously at Meg, her manner implying she would do much better if she didn’t.

  ‘May I ask …’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Did … did Mr Hemingway get me this promotion. There are girls in the kitchen who have been here much longer than I have and who work just as hard so if it was the old gentleman’s influence … well, I’d rather not have it. I want to get on on my own merits …’

  ‘I beg your pardon!’ The housekeeper seemed to swell up like a toad and her already florid face turned to magenta.

  ‘I said …’

  ‘I heard what you said, young lady and I should advise you to keep remarks such as that to yourself if you wish to get on in this establishment. Nobody, nobody is promoted to my floor except on merit, d’you hear. If King Edward himself recommended you I should ignore him. Oh yes, I heard that you … shall we say … applied for the job of kitchen-maid through the auspices of a certain gentleman but that had nothing to do with me nor did it affect my judgement when I chose you over the others, I might add, for the position as underchambermaid. I heard of your previous experience and I have watched you work, Megan and I liked what I saw and that is why you are to come out of the kitchen. It will not make you popular with your fellow servants but it strikes me you will not let that worry you. Now report to the head chambermaid at the cleaning station on the first floor, by the back stairs, if you please, and she will instruct you in your duties.’

  It was almost like being back at Silverdale. She was careful, tender even with the beautiful rooms which came into her care, and, as it became known that she w
as to be trusted, with the exquisite pieces of fine porcelain, the crystal and jade with which the upper reaches of the hotel were crammed. And she was quick! She could look at a job – had she not used the same method at Great George Square and at Silverdale – assess it thoroughly, be it cleaning a grate, changing a bed or polishing the windows of which there were a great many, and within minutes have her cleaning routine worked out and the time that was saved put to good use in another task. Her capacity to work at twice the speed of the other maids and twice as thoroughly brought her no friendships as the housekeeper had foretold but it did bring her to the attention of the head housekeeper! Her organisational abilities, her enormous capacity for work and the efficient and speedy way in which it was performed were noticed and commented upon and she was told that if she continued as she had begun there was a strong chance she might be promoted again.

  ‘The chambermaid on the second floor is to be married, Megan and will leave us at the end of the month. I shall be sorry to see you go from my floor but I believe in rewarding good service.’ The housekeeper nodded approvingly, well pleased with her own good judgement in putting forward this girl. In six months she had become what it took most a year or more to achieve, and on her own merit. Those in the kitchen who had been passed over muttered of favouritism but in their hearts they knew this was not so. Megan Hughes had got where she had, only chambermaid yet, but at least a rung or two up the ladder, on hard work and determination and nothing else.

  But it was in her spare time that Meg learned the most. She did not need to be taught how to clean a carpet, to make a bed or polish a delicate ornament. When the time came her own good taste and what she had seen here, and at Silverdale would guide her in the way to furnish and decorate a room. What she wanted to know was how to run a hotel. A luxury hotel! How to manage the hundreds of tasks the man at the top managed. And to do that she must know what every single employee did as well! She was already a competent, imaginative cook for had not Mrs Whitley, one of the best herself, told her so. She had Mrs Whitley’s recipes and had turned out a score of delicious meals at Great George Square, but French haute cuisine, as prepared by Monsieur Rénard and the other chefs in the kitchens, that was another matter.