Between Friends Page 5

  At the door he turned, looking back to the table, bathed in the golden glow from the lamp which stood in its centre. The light fell on the bent heads of Meg and Tom as they pored over the books they were reading. They sat companionably side by side on the bench, shoulders almost touching, oblivious it seemed, to anything, to anyone, even himself and a strange and elusive sensation fluttered in his chest. It touched him briefly but even before he could grasp it or even realise its existence, it was gone. He stamped his feet impatiently and his young, eager manliness carried him half way up the area steps but, surprising himself he found himself retracing his steps to the kitchen door he had just slammed urgently behind him.

  They all four lifted their heads enquiringly to look at him, Mrs Whitley, Emm, Tom and Meg and he was himself quite amazed to hear his own voice speak.

  ‘Why don’t you come with me to the gym, Tom?’ it said, his mouth seeming to form the words of its own accord. ‘A bit of boxing would put some muscle on you.’

  ‘You what …?’ Tom was clearly bewildered. Though they were as close as brothers with a long record of friendship stretching right through their childhood they were in no way alike in their interests and it was the first time Martin had ever suggested that Tom accompany him to the sporting club.

  ‘You heard! Come and do a bit of sparring with me. It’ll build you up, put some muscle on you like I said.’

  ‘What do I want more muscle on me for?’ Tom asked laughingly. ‘I’m quite satisfied with what I’ve got, thanks.’

  ‘Come off it! You’re like a long drink of water! I can nearly see through you! All skin and bone and nothing to hold it together. A couple of months working out in the gym’ll build you up …’

  ‘You mean if I came with you and bashed hell out of some poor sod …’

  ‘You watch your mouth, Tom Fraser,’ Mrs Whitley tutted angrily.

  ‘… I could look like you?’ Tom finished.

  ‘What’s wrong with that? It’s exercise that does it.’ Martin flexed a muscle in his arm, glancing at Meg but she merely lowered her eyes to her book, losing interest in his and Tom’s argument and he scowled, still young enough to feel the insult of her girlish disdain in his own manly pursuits. Nevertheless he persisted, quite perplexed by his own sudden determination to have Tom go with him.

  ‘Come on. It’d do you good, a bit of exercise …’

  But Mrs Whitley had had enough of Martin standing there with the back door wide open letting all the lovely warm air out ‘Never mind a bit of exercise, Martin Hunter. If Tom wants a bit of exercise, or you an’ all for that matter, you can run round to the “Fiddlers” and fetch me a jug of stout.’ Her voice was sharp. ‘Is that enough exercise for you because if it isn’t I’ll soon find you some. Now shut that door and be off with you before I change me mind!’

  Half way along Duke Street, his puzzled mind still deliberating on what on earth had possessed him to invite Tom to come with him to the sporting club when he knew perfectly well Tom disliked any kind of violent exertion unless he was watching it, he found his footsteps had turned him in a direction which would take him away from the club. Though he had been filled with the need to work off his frustration – at what? his baffled mind asked – he knew he was making, not for the boxing ring where he could fulfill that need but to somewhere else. To somewhere he went whenever he could find the time and the opportunity and the privacy he seemed to need for it. He had told no-one about it, not even those who were closer to him than the family he had never known and he had asked himself why frequently, for in all things but this he and Meg and Tom had shared their hopes and fears, their triumphs and disappointments. This part of his life was perhaps the most important; the most precious; the most vulnerable to the scorn of others and he had been unusually secretive about it. That must be it, he reasoned with himself. That must be why. Because it was so fragile it could not be exposed to the gaze of even Meg and Tom. Not yet!

  Turning out of Whitechapel into Victoria Street he heard his own footsteps quicken eagerly and his mind flew ahead, dashing forward to meet the excitement which always flooded him when he allowed it its way. There were shops on either side of the street. Shops of all kinds, but not grand like those in Dale Street or Bold Street. These were small, run down, crammed with all the commodities needed and purchased by the working man and his family. A butcher, the blinds drawn and nothing but the sign in the window to proclaim its business. A grocer, a greengrocer, a fish merchant, a cheese and butter shop and the inevitable pawnbroker! At the far end, on the corner, appearing to stand apart from its companions in its shining splendour was a double-fronted shop which declared itself to be ‘Hale’s Modern Bicycle Emporium’ and beneath this splendid title were printed the words ‘Albert Hale, prop.’

  Martin’s footsteps slowed and the gas lamplight which shone from the evenly but distantly spaced lampholders along the street picked out the soft, almost lover-like gleam in his eyes. He turned to look into the dim window, a light from the back of the shop evidently shining from Mr Albert Hale’s own living quarters, outlining the silhouettes of the bicycles which were crammed there. He put out his hand, placing his fingers gently against the glass which separated them from him, then rubbed at the glaze of frost which coated it. He breathed on the window, rubbing again, this time with his coat sleeve, peering reverently through the small hole his breath had cleared.

  For several minutes he stood there, gazing in dream-like fashion at the machines, his head on one side as though considering which one to choose for himself, then with an eager squaring of his shoulders he moved to the arched doorway and tapped gently on the door.

  They were about the kitchen table on a bitterly cold evening at the end of January when Martin cleared his throat and as though at a signal they all raised their heads to look enquiringly at him. The room was slow and peaceful, the people in it lounging about in that last reluctant awareness that they should make a move and get to their beds. The fire was dying away to slumbering rosy embers, a tendril of pale grey smoke drifting from the falling ash to escape up the blackened chimney. The kitchen was lambent with pale gold and rose tinted reflections from the last flickering flames in the fireplace and the end of the day indolence gave the figures who lolled about a strange grace.

  Emm was there curled up on a tuffet, her spindly legs to the coals for she felt the chill in her almost fleshless bones. Mrs Whitley dozed in the ‘best’ chair, as was her due, proclaiming at intervals that she really must get up them stairs but making no effort to do so.

  ‘Can I have a word, Mrs Whitley?’ Martin said gruffly and she turned, surprised, for could he not always have a word if he wanted and without asking her permission.

  ‘You what?’

  ‘I want to ask you something before I discuss it with Mr Lloyd.’

  ‘Oh yes!’

  Tom and Meg looked from one face to the other, then at each other, blue eyes asking amber what on earth this was all about. Meg raised her eyebrows and shrugged. She had been sewing, absorbed in the fine tucking she was putting in a new muslin blouse she intended for the spring days to come. The lamplight touched her hair and the glow of it gilded her white skin to cream and put tawny shadows across her shoulders, following the sweet curve of her breasts but Martin was looking at Mrs Whitley and Tom at Martin and neither noticed. She had returned to being ‘their Meggie’, the tomboy sister they were so used to, the confrontation with Fancy O’Neill buried deeply, firmly, in the pit of their minds where it could do them no harm, and her growing, maturing loveliness escaped their casual young men’s interest. Her hair was piled on top of her head, more to keep it out of her way when she was working than to follow fashion, but loosely so that there was a soft fullness around her face. Springing curls escaped to lie about her forehead, above her ears and on the smooth skin at the nape of her neck.

  ‘Yes!’ Martin stood up abruptly and began to pace the room and they all watched him, waiting expectantly.

  ‘Well!’ Mrs Whit
ley said impatiently.

  ‘Well …’

  ‘Oh for pity’ sake, lad, get on with it!’

  He turned decisively. Looking her full in the face in the manner of one who is to sink or swim on his next words, he spoke jerkily.

  ‘I want to go to night school!’

  Mrs Whitley blinked, then sat up slowly straightening her back, crossing her plump arms beneath her thrusting bosom.

  ‘Do you indeed? And who is to pay for it, may I ask, and, more to the point, how are you to find the time. You have work to do at night and …’

  ‘The classes cost nothing, Mrs Whitley. It’s the Collegiate Institute in Shaw Street. It was built to provide an education for the commercial, trading and working classes of Liverpool,’ he said, parrot fashion as though he had repeated the words over and over again. ‘I shall learn mechanical engineering and draughtsmanship. Twice a week and I’ll do my work still, never fear but at some other time … if you don’t mind …’ he added hastily.

  Meg could contain herself no longer. ‘What sort of classes are those, Martin? What does it mean … er … mechanical engine … and what was it … draughtsman something or other …?’ Her voice was excited and her face glowed with the wonder of it all but Mrs Whitley made short work of her!

  ‘Never you mind, miss! This is nothing to do with you!’ She turned again, her fat cheeks wobbling in outrage but before she could make short work of him too, Martin moved across the kitchen and in a way which was as simple as that of a child about to say its prayers, knelt down before her and took her hands in his. She would have shaken him off but he calmed her with a curiously adult dignity, forcing her to look into his face.

  ‘I’m speaking to you first, Mrs Whitley because the work I do affects you as much as Mr Lloyd but when I have your permission I mean to put it to him. I promise you it won’t interfere with what I do here. I shall make some adjustments …’

  ‘Adjustments!’ How grown up he is suddenly, Mrs Whitley had time to consider – then she was captured again by the simple conviction in his voice.

  ‘I want to be an engineer, you see, Mrs Whitley and I can’t do it if I don’t learn how!’

  The room was silent. They could not have been more dumbfounded had he said he was to take the train to London to be a guest of his Majesty the King. An engineer, their collective minds considered, barely aware even of what that was! They had all heard of men with such titles who built bridges and railways and so on but what was that to do with their Martin? He was an odd-job boy, for goodness’ sake and would no doubt, if he worked conscientiously for Mr Lloyd, one day be a steward, and agent, or even, God willing, a manager, but an engineer!

  ‘I’ve not had much schooling,’ Martin continued, his voice falling strongly into the stunned quiet his announcement had created. ‘I can read and write and do sums but there’s more to it than that. You know how … how good I am with machinery. I can mend things, I always have done. I don’t know how, or why I can do it. When I was eight years old I took Matron’s watch to pieces when she said it wouldn’t go and when I put it together again … it went! You’ve seen me mend things, haven’t you?’

  Mrs Whitley nodded, hypnotised by his quiet certainty.

  ‘Well, I can do it with anything. Mr Hale said …’

  ‘Mr Hale?’

  ‘Yes, I’ve been meaning to tell you …’

  ‘Tell me what?’ Mrs Whitley drew back suspiciously but Meg, Tom and Emm leaned closer, mesmerised by this incredible scene they were witnessing. Martin continued to kneel at Mrs Whitley’s feet, speaking to them all really, but his eyes never left the cook’s face and she felt the power in him and knew there would be no stopping him, ever! Whatever he did, now or in the future, he would not be stopped!

  ‘He has the bicycle shop at the corner of Victoria Street. I’ve been helping him out …’

  ‘… and you never told us!’ Meg was affronted but again Mrs Whitley turned on her sharply, telling her to hold her tongue.

  ‘Go on, lad, helping him out?’

  ‘In my own time, Mrs Whitley. Instead of going to the sporting club … whenever I had an hour free … I met him at the club, Mr Hale I mean … he plays billiards there and when I told him about …’

  ‘What, lad?’

  ‘That I liked … loved machinery … bicycles … the internal combustion engine …’

  ‘The internal …!’ Mrs Whitley could only gasp on the unfamiliar words.

  ‘Yes … the horseless carriage, you know … you’ve seen them in town …’ Martin shook her hands impatiently.

  ‘God save us all!’

  ‘Well, he said I could give him a hand in his shop and I did and he said I was wasted here.’

  ‘Wasted! Now see here, young man!’

  ‘… and that I could go to night school and learn it properly. I’ve got a knack, he said. It’s coming, he said …’

  ‘What is?’

  ‘The motor car, not just for them with money but for us all and so I want to be in on it, Mrs Whitley, by God I do. It’s 1903 and before this decade is over we shall see the roads crammed with them. There’s already more than eight thousand of them! Think of that, Mrs Whitley!’ His voice was filled with awe, ‘and the speed they go now that the Motor Car Act has been passed … twenty miles an hour, can you imagine it?’

  Mrs Whitley couldn’t, not having the slightest conception of what he was talking about and neither could Emm but Tom and Meg, as enthusiastic as the young are about anything which might bring excitement and colour into their lives, became flushed with Martin’s own triumph and they jostled with one another to hear the better.

  ‘They have to have a registration number now,’ Martin explained eagerly, ‘so that those who break the law can be identified and prosecuted …’

  ‘Prosecuted.’ Mrs Whitley said feebly.

  ‘It’s not just a hobby any more, you see, like sailing or … or such like. It used to be a toy for the well-to-do but not any more. Oh no! Everyone will have one some day but before they can someone has to get the design perfected …’

  ‘Perfected …’ Meg breathed reverently.

  ‘… so that they can be turned out cheaply …’

  ‘D’you mean chaps like you and me will be able to have one?’ Tom’s expression was disbelieving.

  ‘Oh yes, and all the …’

  ‘But what about the roads? Will there be enough room on them for everyone?’

  ‘That will come, with time …’

  ‘Yes, but who’s going to make all these motor cars …’

  Meg’s eyes gazed wonderingly at Martin and in the midst of his jubilant elation he found himself staring in quite the most fascinated manner at the moist curve of her open pink mouth. She had licked her lips with her little tongue leaving them shining and … and …

  He cleared his throat and tore his gaze away.

  ‘We are!’ His voice sounded strangely husky.

  ‘We? Who’s we?’

  ‘Well, me for one!’

  ‘What do you know about it?’ Tom’s voice was derisive and Mrs Whitley snorted as though in agreement. He was but a lad, her expression said with a lad’s big ideas and if he didn’t give over and get down to the job he had he might find himself without one altogether. But Martin Hunter had not yet finished.

  ‘I know a lot! I can read, can’t I, and Mr Hale takes all the latest magazines. It’s ten years now since it began so I’ve got to be quick …’

  ‘Tell us about it, Martin, please …’ Meg’s voice was humble, paying homage to his masculine knowledge and he lifted his head arrogantly.

  ‘You wouldn’t know what I was talking about, for God’s sake!’

  ‘Try us, go on, please.’

  They listened carefully, caught up in his own excitement, turning their heads and straining towards him as he explained the difference between steam and the internal combustion engine, talking incomprehensively about fly wheels and crankshafts and horsepower and valves until their eyes
began to glaze. It was too technical for them, Martin could see that so he told them of the days, told to him by Mr Hale, not too long ago when Timothy Osborne (a gentleman of much power and wealth in Liverpool, related to their own Mr Hemingway) was one of the first to own an ‘infernal machine’ as they were then called and had caused a sensation in Dale Street by driving his vehicle at the speed of two miles an hour which was all that had then been allowed, the machine manned, as the law demanded, by three persons one of whom walked ahead carrying a red flag of warning! Horses had reared and ladies fainted and men had laughed. Yes, men had laughed but not now! Not when every man with the slightest conception of what internal combustion would one day mean to the world, men like himself, were about to launch it in the shape of the motor car and … yes … the flying machine, on the unsuspecting world! Every detail of motoring, it’s past and it’s future was of the utmost importance to him and although Martin Hunter knew he was barely scratching the surface as yet he was quick to see the possibility of the new ideas and his shrewd intelligence, more vital than the slower thinking Tom, had grasped and marvelled at what it would mean to their future.

  Those who owned carriages and rode horses could see no purpose in the ‘automobile’ for had not the railway opened up the country to anyone who cared to travel, providing he had the price of a ticket! They were hostile to the idea of the motor car. Where the railway line went so did people, freight, workers moving from one destination to another so what possible use was a motor car? The roads were not made for them, they said, roads meant only for the horse and carriage, for pedestrians and cyclists. Crops were ruined by the dust the machines raised and even washing hung out to dry in one’s own garden was spoiled! Dangerous, horrid, odious things, frightening everyone within a mile of them! That was the general opinion of most folk, including Mrs Whitley who had been no nearer to one of them than to the wild animals she believed they resembled, but already Germany and France, Italy and America were manufacturing them, taking the lead and surely, young Martin agonised, Britain – and himself – must soon catch up. And only by learning could he do it. Learning how to do it. Learning how to design and make the machines he loved, and to do that he must go back to school!