Between Friends

by Audrey Howard

  ‘It seems Tom can do nothing without you beside him and it also seems very clear that Tom’s needs come before mine. You will have to choose, lady, and choose quickly for I do not mean to wait any longer.’

  ‘Martin …!’

  ‘I shall be at the airfield until …’

  ‘I must have some time … please Martin …’

  ‘Time! Take all the time in the world, Megan, but do not expect me to be waiting for you.’ His face was cruel, hard, dreadfully so and his words were meant to hurt. ‘I was never good at waiting, Megan, nor at playing second best!’

  He turned then and strode from the room and she heard the sound of the ‘Huntress’ as it thundered down the drive and the echo of it beat in her heart and hurt her with a pain she could scarcely contain.

  Five days later, Germany, in order to strike at France, an enemy now, from behind, demanded from Belgium the right to march through her territory into France. The Belgian government declined. Despite this Germany marched into Belgium declaring that it was necessary for them to do so and necessity knows no law.

  Great Britain’s plighted word would certainly lead her to join France and Russia when Belgium was invaded for how could any self-respecting nation remain at peace when another held so low a regard for international obligations? The Belgians tried to resist the German Army but within a month the Germans were at the French border and on the 14th August 1914 Great Britain was at war with Germany sending an expeditionary force of one hundred thousand which took its stand at Mons.

  In all that time Martin Hunter had no word from Megan Hughes and when he left Camford for the Royal Flying Corps training camp at Hendon, Middlesex, he made no attempt to let her know.

  Chapter Thirty

  IT WAS THE last day in August. Tom Fraser stepped lightly across the polished parquet flooring at the head of the stairs, hesitating a moment before the closed bedroom door. He looked down at his boots, checking to see that he had completely removed all traces of the heavy black soil in which he had been working, for he knew Meg would not greatly care to have it deposited on the carpet which covered the floor. He held a large bunch of roses mixed with lavender and white babies’ breath in his hand.

  Reassured that his boots were quite clean, he knocked gently on the white painted door panel. He did not want to wake her if she was taking a nap, which she seemed to do quite often these days, complaining when he asked, that she was not sleeping well at the moment.

  ‘It’ll be the heat, love, and worry over the war.’

  ‘Probably,’ she had answered.

  It was mid-afternoon and the hotel was quite silent, just as though all the guests were also napping, pulled down by the excessively warm day. It was close, humid, with big thunder clouds gathered on the horizon, threatening at any moment to tumble across the sky and attack the peaks, to roll across the dales and lash the farms and cottages, and the hotel with treacherous ferocity. Tom would not be sorry if they did for a storm would release some of the springing tension which the heat of the day contained. It would do Meg good as well, if the weather turned cooler for she’d not been looking at all herself lately. It had been like this for weeks now, with heavy skies tinted a strange and sulphorous yellow, pressing down on aching heads, the air almost too hot to breathe and Meg had been pale, listless, quiet as a mouse which was not like her at all. She ate next to nothing, picking at what was put before her, even when she herself had cooked it and scarcely appeared to notice the bickering which went on in the kitchen, the sudden arguments which exploded over the smallest thing, the maids oppressed, as they all were, by the days of endless heat.

  There was no answer to his soft knock. She must be sleeping, or perhaps she had gone downstairs again whilst he had been in the garden cutting the flowers for her. He had not seen her as he passed through the kitchen where Edie and the girls had been sitting, stupefied by the heat but she could have gone into the wide reception area, or even into the garden at the front of the hotel.

  He was about to turn away, the flowers still held tenderly in his large, working man’s hand when he changed his mind. He’d not carry them downstairs again to wilt in the heat, he’d leave them on her bedside table, he decided. She’d not be long, wherever she was and when she came back they would be a nice surprise for her. She loved flowers, did Meg and these would take her out of herself. Cheer her up. He’d been puzzled, he admitted to himself, by her strangeness these last few weeks and was not convinced it was due entirely to the weather. She was vague sometimes, only half listening to what was said to her, giving the impression that she was waiting for something, sitting quietly with her hands folded in her lap as patient as could be. At other times she was restless, pacing about the hotel, peering from windows, striding the boundaries of the hotel grounds and impatient with him when he asked her what was to do. The war was on everyone’s mind, of course, and Meg was no exception though she hadn’t said much. Well, it was bound to worry her, wasn’t it? She was a woman and women are left behind to bear the anxious burden of waiting when their menfolk went off to fight, and then there was the added unease of what was to become of the hotel. They had only just got it on it’s feet, so to speak and how was the war to affect it, he asked himself?

  Already the manager at ‘The Hawthorne Tree’ had reported a drop in the takings in the tap room and snug as local men flocked to the recruiting centres to take the King’s shilling, though as yet it had not affected the ‘other side’ where the hikers and cyclists still came and the rooms were filled with enthusiastic young men and liberated young women, still determined to enjoy themselves whilst they could.

  ‘Hilltops’ was filled to capacity for it seemed the prosperous and the privileged were also influenced by the onset of hostilities, and every day the telephone rang constantly with enquiries for their luxurious suites as though the nation had gone quite mad in its efforts to take its pleasure whilst it was still available. There appeared to be a feeling amongst many that before long all the diversions of peacetime might be swept away, though Tom could not imagine why, and people seemed desperate to wring every drop of enjoyment from life that there was. They’d settle down soon, Tom thought placidly, when the first shock of going to war had worn off, just like Meg would and if he could persuade her to set their wedding day before … well … it had been a year and that was certainly long enough for any man to wait. She was ready for marriage. She had a certain look about her which Tom, inexperienced as he was in the ways of the flesh, could recognise instantly as a male does, the look of a female who needed to be loved. Physically loved. He could not explain, even to himself, what it was or how he knew it. It was an aura, a feeling of sensuality, though Tom shyly admitted to himself it was not a word he was comfortable with. It had come about her only recently and it made him more restless himself. He felt nervous – a silly word – in her presence, as jumpy as she was and he felt a strong and compulsive need to sweep her into his arms and kiss her until she was breathless. He had never done that with her for despite her love for him and her agreement to marry him, she had held herself from him in a way which would not quite allow it. He supposed it was only right that she should. She was a ‘good’ girl and should be respected as such but really, he was going to insist she name the day and that it should be soon, especially now.

  Quietly he opened the door and stepped inside the bedroom and was immediately wrapped about in a shaft of sunlight, sultry and oppressive which streamed across the carpet from the open window. The curtains were half drawn and except for the bright bar of sunlight, the room was dim and airless.

  It was a lovely room and he looked forward to the day he would share it with her. It had a superb view across the lake to the great sweep of the Derbyshire fells and on a fine morning was the first window through which the sun shone. It was simply furnished. A plain carpet in a shade of pale caramel, with walls of the same colour. White woodwork and a velvet chair or two in saxe green. The bed was covered in a cream lace bedspread and the curtains,
in silk were a subdued mixture of cream, white and the palest green. There was a small marble fireplace, empty now of a fire but in the hearth stood an enormous pottery jug containing a feathery mass of dried grasses.

  He did not see her at first for the room was veiled in the hazy shadows cast by the sun and the half closed curtains. A million floating particles of dust lifted in the movement of air caused by the opening of the door, drifting in the shaft of sunlight and for a moment his eyes were sightless. He narrowed them and his mouth curved in a smile for he could smell her perfume. On the bed was some wisp of something in a pale and lovely blue, with satin ribbons, eternally feminine and he put out his hand to touch it but before he could reach it something caught his attention, some sound, slight and soft and when he turned his head she was there, in the shadows. She was sitting before the dressing table, completely motionless, staring at her own dim reflection in the mirror. In her hand was a brush and her hair hung almost to her waist, vibrant and glowing like a flame. She had on a white cotton wrapper, with lace at the neckline and sleeve, tied with a silk ribbon but its whiteness was no paler than her face, and her eyes, though they seemed to look into the mirror, saw nothing. They were expressionless, blank, pale and lifeless, but worse than anything were the huge tears which slipped, almost of their volition, as though Megan Hughes had no control over them, or even knew of their existence, down her colourless cheeks, falling to stain the cotton of her gown. They simply streamed in an endless flow of sorrow from her eyes.

  ‘Dear God … Meggie!’ Tom’s heart bucked, then surged into his throat and he thought he would not be able to speak, or even breathe. With a wild gesture he threw the flowers on to the bed, moving swiftly across the room to her side. When he got there he was not quite certain what he was to do for she looked so … so terrible he thought for one appalled moment that she could be dead. She seemed dead, or so dazed with some dreadful thing she was quite senseless. The hairbrush hung at the end of her arm, held somehow in her flaccid hand, but as he watched, horrified, it dropped with a soft thud to the carpet and lifting both her hands in a sudden movement, she dropped her face into them and began to weep loudly.

  ‘Meggie … sweetheart …’

  Tom was appalled. He had never seen her in such distress and had not the faintest idea how to deal with it, nor even what had caused it. If he had, perhaps he might have been able to alleviate it. She was vulnerable, as all women are, he supposed, at certain times of the month though he knew nothing about it really, but his Meg had not seemed unduly concerned, and certainly she had never wept broken-heartedly as she was doing now. She was inconsolable, putting her face into her folded arms on the dressing table top and crying as though she was stricken with an unbearable grief.

  ‘Meggie … darling … what is it, for God’s sake?’

  But it seemed she could not stop nor even speak though she allowed herself to be drawn into his compassionate embrace and when he kissed the top of her head and begged her to tell him what had upset her, she only cried the more and it was only after ten minutes or so of careful stroking and murmuring that she began to speak incoherently – saying what did she care for the doings of crazy men who risked their lives for a dream and weren’t all men the same, selfish and uncaring, without a thought for the women who loved them and were forced to wait until that dream was a reality, hearts plunging in fear whilst they played with their dangerous toys like children.

  Tom could make no sense of it and did not try but sat her down gently on the bed and held her in his arms and waited until she was calmer before pressing her with the utmost kindness to unburden herself of her problem, to lay it on his broad shoulders, for surely there must be something seriously wrong and wasn’t that what he was here for, he asked her lovingly, to take away her worries, if she had any?

  But like Martin Hunter, Tom Fraser had only the smallest conception of the depths of Meg Hughes, and the enormity of her strength. Each had but one thought, to protect and care for her, to possess her, unaware that what they saw was only a part of what she was, of what she wanted from them, from anyone. Even Martin who had entered not only her body, but the heart and spirit of her, could not imagine what it was that made her into that unique being, Megan Hughes. Even he, though deep in love with her did not understand her complex and ambitious mind nor the special principle that drove her on. If he had he might have penetrated her resolve, recognised it for what it was, understood it and allowed it to come to fruition and eventual fulfilment.

  ‘I’m sorry, Tom,’ she sniffed at last, taking the handkerchief he gave her and blowing her nose vigorously. ‘You’ve found me in one of those moods which sometimes come upon my sex. It’s nothing really. The autumn is nearly here and the winter will set in and the snow will come. It will be difficult to get about – remember last winter – and no-one will be staying here and I don’t know what I shall do with myself. You can be captured up here on these peaks for months and the very thought makes me shiver.’

  She looked out of the window at the great sweep of lawn which the gardener who helped Tom, battled with each day in a never-ending struggle to keep it as smooth as a billiard table, but already the stage was slowly becoming set for the annual change from summer to autumn to winter and she was bereft, it seemed, and inconsolable.

  ‘It’s all so … so sad, Tom … so sad.’

  ‘What is, my darling? Dear God, Meg, this is not like you. I have never seen you so down before. What has happened to make you like this? You are the most optimistic person I have ever known, cheering up others with your high spirits and certainty that everything would be right in the end. Believe me I should not have got through the last four years without your complete faith in what we were doing.’

  ‘Tom … I’m sorry, forgive me …’

  ‘There’s nothing to forgive,’ he said smiling, since he did not know what it was she spoke of. ‘You have a good cry if you want to.’

  ‘No, I’ve finished with crying, Tom, for good. I was just giving in to a silly whim.’

  She shook herself, like a dog who has been unwillingly immersed in water and smiled brightly. ‘In fact, I’ve made up my mind to get right away for a while. Close the hotel, we’ve had a hectic season, and have a few days holiday ourselves. What do you say?’

  He gasped and his eyes shone with joyful anticipation. He had no idea what was in her mind, perhaps a honeymoon, but if he was to be included in it how could he refuse his expression said, then his face fell and he shook his head.

  ‘I can’t do it, Meg.’

  ‘Why not? Oh please, Tom, let’s go up to …’

  ‘I can’t, Meggie, honest …’

  ‘But why not, for God’s sake? I know the place is full but we can refuse any more bookings for a week and Edie and Albert will keep an eye on the place …’

  Tom studied Meg with loving, troubled eyes but his heart was heavy for how was he to tell her? He was still the engaging young man who had grown from the cheerful youth and boy, his open, good-humoured face scarcely altered in ten years. The placid country life they had known for years had exactly suited his temperament. He was content in his life now the threat of Martin had been removed. He looked just what he was, a man of the soil, a plain working man in a working man’s garb, with a pleasant brown face beneath his cap of bright curls. His eyes were clear and steady in his love for her, blue and reliable as the summer sky. It was a patient face, boyish and yet maturing now, his own confidence, built up layer upon layer by Meg and the work she trusted him with, as enduring as the soil he worked. It was an unlined face for he had nothing with which he was troubled.

  But now his eyes were anxious, careful almost for what he had to tell her was going to upset her further and he could not bear to see it in her. But it must be done. He was a man, an Englishman and it must be done.

  ‘What is it, Tom?’ She put out a hand to him in sudden fear and on her face was an expression which said she really did not think she could stand any more.

  �
�Meggie …’

  ‘What, for God’s sake … what?’

  ‘I don’t know how to tell you, you being so upset an’ all, but … well, we’ve all got to do what we think is right, our Meg …’

  ‘Please, Tom.’ She was beginning to understand what it was he was trying to tell her, he could see it in her tear wet eyes but it did not make it any easier. He had been so filled with pride, with national patriotism, and with the excitement not unlike the fervour of the football supporters with whom he had once mingled. He had queued for hours with them, right along the street and round the corner for the recruiting officer could scarcely cope with the thousands who, like himself, had come to offer themselves to their country, to their King and to the bright, golden chance to be heroes.

  Megan began to moan helplessly.

  ‘Oh don’t Tom, please … don’t tell me …’

  ‘I’m sorry Meggie … really …’

  ‘Not you, Tom! I can’t stand it if you leave me as well …’

  He did not notice what she had said after the first word or two. Though he was clearly upset by her grief, and if he were honest, a little gratified, it surely meant they would be married before he set off for France. There was a tilt to his head, a proud lift in his shoulders and the triumphant light of courage in his vivid blue eyes.

  ‘I had to, Meg. There was no other way.’ He said it simply. ‘The 19th battalion, the “Kings Liverpool Regiment”. The third Liverpool “Pals” we are. We’re all to stay together, all us “scousers” in a “Pals” battalion. It’ll be grand to serve with other chaps from Liverpool, in the same regiment … I’m sorry, Meg, really I am, but I’ve to report tomorrow for training I didn’t think it’d be so soon but Albert is a good chap and he can cope and I’ll be home soon on leave and …’ His face became hopeful, warm with his love and the expectation that she surely could not refuse him now, ‘… we can be married before I go, Meg, can’t we?’