‘I’m going for a drive,’ she told a surprised Tom one afternoon, as she backed her little car out of the garage. ‘No, you don’t need to come, love. I know you’re busy. I’ll only go into Ashbourne and back. I feel in need of a new hat or something!’
He laughed. ‘That’s right, sweetheart, you treat yourself,’ he shouted after her, waving his hand, turning away before she had reached the gate at the end of the drive.
She knew where she was going, of course she did, though she had not admitted it to herself, let alone Tom and nothing in the world could have stopped her. She told herself, as she made the turn for Camford, that it was to talk to him, to speak as one business man to another on the difficulties which lay ahead. To ask what he would do to resolve this, or this, or this, and how he would go about that, or that, or that. He had worked with Mr Robert and Mr Charles Hemingway, both astute men in the world of commerce and their shrewdness had been passed on to him in the years he had known them. He had learned from them as she had learned her trade at the Adelphi and he had put what he had learned into practical use, as she had done in a small way at ‘The Hawthorne Tree’. She told herself she was merely to consult him on a minor point or two which might prove awkward in the future and ask him how he would go about removing an anxious problem which had cropped up to disturb her. He would listen to her, understand what she was saying and just by doing so give her the support she badly needed at this moment.
He was in his overalls. They were stiff with grease and oil, worn almost threadbare in places, patched in others and evidently much loved by him for why else would he still wear them and she was smiling at this artless, unexpected side to his nature when he turned to look at her. His eyes widened, then filled with his delighted wonder and the depths of his love for her. She watched them darken and the corners of his mouth were tugged upwards in a smile of such joy, her own did the same and she spoke his name though he could not hear her over the noise of the hangar. She saw his lips form her name and began to walk towards him.
Every head in the hangar turned to look at her. She wore a hand-knitted ‘sports coat’ in saxe blue, hip length, very casual with pockets and tied loosely with a belt, and an ankle length woollen skirt of the same colour. The outfit was warm and comfortable for motoring and on her head was a woollen beret in shades of blue and cream into which she had stuffed her hair. She looked beautiful for the wind had whipped up her colour, and the strange excitement she felt had put a brilliant shine into her eyes.
They all watched as their employer put down the tool with which he was working, wiped his hands on an oily rag and began to walk to meet the lovely young woman who had come in through the hangar doors. The doors stood wide open and the spring sunshine poured in and the men were astounded by the expression on Martin Hunter’s face. Mind you, she was extremely pretty and in each man was the thought that he himself would look just like that if she were to smile at him as she was smiling at Martin Hunter. She held out her hands to him and seemed not to mind at all when he clasped them with his own, despite the oil which he transferred to them.
‘Meggie,’ they heard him say and his voice was certainly not the one they were used to, overbearing for the most part and hazardous in it’s intention to make them understand that what he wanted, he got! It was soft, gentle with some emotion which seemed to say that he had waited for this moment for a long time and thanked God that it had at last come.
He drew her by the hand through what appeared to Meg to be heaps of rusted metal and bits of twisted tubing, pieces of engines, rolls of fabric and struts of wood, wheels and cans of oil, strange objects which she could not begin to put a name to and all reminding her poignantly of Mr Hale’s workshop in Liverpool and the bicycles which had started it all. There was even the same smell, oil and grease, a strange and pungent burning and an even stranger, sweeter odour with which she was to become familiar, of the substance which appeared to hold together the flimsy little machines Martin built!
‘Come into the office and … perhaps some tea?’ his fascinated mechanics heard him say, turning to stare, open-mouthed at one another for where in the name of God was he to produce tea in this section of the industry which was dedicated to the sole function of producing Martin Hunter’s ‘Wren’ and nothing more? Over in the automobile factory which was situated near to the road in a corner of Watkins Field there was a small canteen and tea could be had from a huge urn during the five minute break Mr Hunter allowed his employees, but here, in the holy of holies where no-one was allowed except those who were working on the aircraft, it would be interesting to see from where he would produce a cup of tea!
‘I thought … I thought I would come and see … how my investment was doing, Martin.’ Meg stood where he had placed her by the desk and her breath shivered in her throat in the most awkward way, making it difficult to speak. He had closed the door behind him, leaning against it with his arms folded and should she have wanted to escape his warm regard, or even Martin himself, she could not have done so. The office was of glass so that Martin, when he sat at his desk or his drawing board, could keep an eye on what went on in the workshop, but it worked two ways and Meg was conscious of the eyes which were now on them and she turned away, blushing furiously for surely those men could read exactly what was in her mind. Dear God, why had she not noticed before the smooth amber of Martin’s flesh, the shape, the texture, the softness and strength of his lips, the way the light turned his dark hair to chestnut? Though her back was to him she could sense the power in his broad shoulders and in her mind’s eye see the shape of the lean muscles in his thigh and the bulge of his calves beneath the tight stretch of his overalls. She could smell the soap, the cigar smoke, the sweat for he had been working since dawn and feel the warm lapping of his eyes on her back, knowing they would be as deep and dark a brown as the hot chocolate Mrs Whitley used to make. She could hear his breathing, realising in her bewilderment that it was as rapid as her own.
‘The man … he would not let me in …’ She laughed and her voice sounded shrill in her ears and she pretended to study a poster on the wall which advertised Martin’s little family car.
‘Get on the road with a Hunter automobile and be sure of arriving. Guaranteed delivery within four weeks of order and all for the price of £110.’
‘He insisted on driving across the field with me … what have you here, state secrets? I left my motor outside the shed …’
‘Hangar.’
‘Pardon.’
‘This is a hangar, my darling, and please turn round and face me.’
She turned and their eyes met and their love flowed triumphantly between them and was given and taken with a joyous wonder which was unique and endless, their exchanged glances said.
‘You have oil on your cheek, Martin.’ She took a step toward him and smiled dazzlingly, putting a hand in her pocket to withdraw a scrap of handkerchief.
‘I love you, Megan Hughes. You know it, don’t you?’
‘Oh yes.’
‘Do you love me then?’
‘Oh yes, Martin.’
‘Say it instead of babbling about oil.’
‘I love you, Martin.’
‘I want to kiss you.’
‘I know …’
‘But not here.’
‘No …’
‘Where?’
She seemed incapable of thought as she admired the way in which his lips moved across his white teeth and could not bear another moment without feeling them against hers. She was captivated by the slow, sensual drooping of his long lashes across his eyes and as she watched them delightedly, they narrowed with a need she understood at last and she could see the straining of his crossed arms and though he gave the impression of a man lounging casually, carelessly, with no thought in his mind but his attention to a pretty woman she knew he was as tense as herself.
‘I don’t know …’ She looked about her and beyond his shoulder to the scattered groups of men, all watching curiously, avidly, some
of them, this dalliance between Mr Hunter and his lady visitor and the flush of awkward embarrassment began somewhere behind her knees, working its way up through her body and suddenly she wanted to get away. She wanted their love, their committed acknowledgement of it to be displayed to one another in a place of seclusion, somewhere quiet and tranquil, somewhere they could linger in and sigh over and be certain they would not be disturbed.
‘Come to my rooms,’ he said urgently.
‘Your … your rooms?’
‘Yes. I have rooms at a house in town. We can be alone …’
‘But …’ She lifted a hand to indicate the hangar and the men in it, the gauzy outline of his ‘Wren’, the benches and machinery and in the far corner, the ‘Blériot’ in which he gave flying lessons.
‘I can leave it … for an hour, please Meggie …’
An hour! He was asking her to slip away covertly and meet him in his rooms where they would spend an hour … an hour …
‘We can talk, Meggie,’ but his burning eyes scorched her face and her breast and his ragged breath tore at something precious inside her and she drew back uncertainly.
‘Godammit, Meg, you love me … I can see it in your eyes! Do you know how long I have loved you, do you? I have watched you and waited for you to recognise your feelings because I knew them for I feel them! All this with Tom, it has to come out sooner or later. I wouldn’t have let you go ahead with it, you know that, don’t you? I hoped you would see it for yourself … he’s your brother, dammit and you have mistaken what you feel for him as … It’s not a woman’s love for her man, Meg. Face it, my darling! Look at me! That is what you feel for me, isn’t it?’
He groaned and turned to stare out over the hangar and every man in it was suddenly busy at whatever he was about but he did not notice them. ‘I see you standing there, telling me that it’s true and I want to leap across the office and put my arms about you and kiss you until you beg me to … Is that wrong, Meggie?’
But she had moved another foot away from him, inching along the desk and when he turned back to her, her face no longer had that bemused, familiar look he had seen on a score of other female faces and he knew she had withdrawn from him.
‘What is it? What have I said? Is it Tom? You’ll have to tell him, you know. You can’t keep letting him believe you’re going to marry him. It’s unfair to us all. The poor sod is besotted with you but …’
His face became sad and his voice sighed out of him and he slumped against the door. ‘It is Tom, isn’t it? And me! I’ve gone too fast, haven’t I? But the sight of you standing in that hangar doorway, the sun shining about you … and that blue thing you have on. I always said you should wear bright colours …’ His voice was soft and Meg wondered at the many facets of this man she loved. He could be fierce, challenging, passionate, a man needing and demanding his woman, sure that he would get her with his wit and charm, and yet he had sensed her withdrawal from an ardour, a sensuality she had no knowledge of. She was ignorant of a man’s body, innocent herself and her resistance to the thought of going to his rooms, to the quite premeditated arrangement of herself and him, alone there, had put a barrier between them.
‘Meggie, I’m sorry, my love, but I am a man and I cannot apologise for the feeling you arouse in me. I’m not ashamed of it. I love you and I want you! I want you in my bed one day! There, I’ve said it,’ but he grinned wickedly now, impudent and loving, and he saw her begin to smile. ‘I really did not mean … well … shall we say, my sweet Meg, that when we find the right place and the right moment I shall kiss you and kiss you until you cannot resist me. Now, before I lose any more production I think you must go. But promise me something.’ He put out a hand and she moved to it unhesitatingly and put her own in his and her face was soft and quite beautiful in her love for him.
‘What Martin?’
‘Promise me you will tell Tom as soon as you get home, and another thing. Take that damn silly ring off your finger! I shall get you a …’
‘It’s not a damn silly ring. Tom paid a lot of money …’
‘Oh God! don’t let’s start again, Meg.’
‘I’m not, but you should not put Tom down like that. He saved up hard and it took all the money he had …’
‘Oh, I don’t doubt it and I’m really not putting him down, sweetheart. I have a strong affection for Tom, you know that but any man is entitled to feel outraged when he sees the woman he loves sporting a ring another fellow gave her. Anyway, that is not the issue here.’ He put his hands on her shoulders and held her gently but he had to restrain himself from giving her a thorough shaking for it seemed she must be forever defending Tom Fraser and he really did get tired of it.
‘No! Then what is?’
‘You know exactly what is to be done and you must find the courage to do it, Meggie, or I will!’
He felt her shoulders slump beneath his hands and for a brief moment she allowed him to draw her into his arms. Her own came round his back and she pressed her face against his chest, and the men on the shop floor held their breath as he held her to him, then she stepped away quite briskly. Her eyes were bright with tears for Tom but the strange and lovely joy Martin had roused in her was a promise and he was satisfied.
‘Come back to me when you have told him,’ he said. ‘I’ll be waiting for you.’
The low sun shone on the French windows as she drove up the drive towards the house and she stopped half way up it, letting the engine idle as she sat and looked at it. It was a lovely house. The gardens were immaculate now, the slope of the lawn massed with wild daffodils in an undulating carpet of yellow against the green. There was pink campion pressing along the edge of the lake, a willow tree beginning to leaf and at the base of the walls of the house, slashing the grey stone with colour, were hyacinth and narcissus, primrose and anemone. The house was set in grounds of wild beauty, only the area immediately around it tamed so that eventually guests might sit comfortably in the sunshine, or play croquet on the lawns Tom was preparing. The ornamental gardens would be spectacular in their season, a multitude of velvet headed roses in every shade from palest pink to deepest red and all surrounded with a low, clipped box hedge and neat gravelled pathways. There was a conservatory to the side where it would catch the sun and already Tom had magnolia, orchid and gardenia blooming there and a dozen green ferns and even a canary in a cage. There were wicker chairs and tables, a small fountain and a statue or two of cherubs at play.
The sky was high, blue and distant, hazed a little with light cloud but for miles around there was nothing, just high peaks and gentle valleys and the restful peace of the Dovedale Grange. She turned off the engine and slipped down in her seat until her head rested on the back of it, staring up into the tender new leaves of the lime trees which edged the drive. It was so quiet now she could hear the whisper of the breeze in the branches and the high song of a linnet, out of sight in the arch of the sky. She closed her eyes and listened and in her head she could hear the laughter of splendid men and women, dressed in white of course, as they moved about her lawn, and the deferential tones of the maids who set out tables and chairs and dainty trays of sandwiches and cakes and tea. There was movement as horses trotted along the path which led down to the river and the sound of the river itself, and behind the house, out of the sight of the guests, chauffeurs lounged whilst the mechanic filled up the petrol tanks of the dozen elegant motors which stood in the yard.
She herself was waiting in the doorway of the house, always there each time to warmly greet a new arrival, delighted to reassure them that Miss Hughes was not only familiar with their names, where they had come from, where they were going to, but within minutes, any likes or dislikes they might have and which would be catered for during their stay in her exclusive establishment.
And the food, they would ask? It could not be bettered in any of the smartest London hotels or restaurants, she would tell them, and would prove it, and was it any wonder the dining-room was filled each lunchtime and even
ing, not only with hotel guests but with the local gentry, nobility even, who ate there regularly.
She sighed, then smiled a cat’s smile and stretched her limbs and Martin’s eyes grinned lazily at her and she could feel the hot blood begin to surge in her veins and her breath grew quick in her throat. Martin … Martin … Martin … and Tom! Dear God, how was she to tell him … Dear God!
There was an irritated honking of a motor car horn from somewhere and she sat up quickly, looking about her for she could have sworn it was close by. She turned and gasped for there was a ‘Silver Ghost’ Rolls Royce directly behind her, chauffeur driven, the sun striking from its polished surface and brass headlamps and as she stared, her jaw slack, the chauffeur switched off the engine and stepped down from the machine.
‘Excuse me, miss,’ he said politely, his eyes admiring ‘will you be long, only we want to get up to the hotel.’
The hotel. The hotel!
‘Er … well …’ Her brain appeared to have been deprived of its usual capacity to function and she continued to sit, half turned in her seat then, as though the new electric light which had been installed in every one of the rooms at ‘Hilltops’, even the maidservant’s attic bedroom, had been switched on, her brain became alive and bounding with joy. The hotel! They were looking for the hotel. Her hotel!
Between Friends Page 42