Between Friends

by Audrey Howard

  Will sipped his tea and watched the robin, saying nothing, letting Meg Fraser talk and his calm acceptance of life, of his own infirmity and the hardships he had shared in his early life with his mother, settled the despair in the woman at his side and gradually the tension eased from her. She felt the sun gently warm her face and listened to the birds call to each other.

  ‘I’ll see to him, Mrs Fraser. Don’t you fret. You go and do what you must. He’ll be safe with me.’

  And so he was. In the lovely serenity of the surrounding countryside, the acres of parkland, the gardens, the land behind the house which held the vegetable plot, Tom Fraser found the peace he needed. Meg bought a bit of farmland, twenty acres or so which lay to the rear and side of ‘Hilltops’ and with a sense of continuity, remembering Tom’s love of the animals he had cared for and the land he had tended at Silverdale, told Will to do with it as he liked.

  He and Tom, of whom he was in discreet charge, the doctor had told him, explaining what that meant, went off each day to overlook the small herd of cows, the pigs, the hens, the growing kitchen gardens and the paddocks in which Meg intended to put a pony for Beth. Two men just back from France were taken on, to help with the extra work which the added land entailed and often accompanied by the little girl, four years old now, a couple of puppies, young collies which Will had bought from a local farmer, they would form a protective phalanx about the fragile man who was Tom Fraser. Meg thanked God for Will Hardcastle as she watched him, like the Pied Piper himself, moving about the property with a trailing group of children – for what else could she call Tom – and animals at his back.

  She watched the dreadful sorrow fade from the closed-up face of her husband in the peaceful routine of his days and even heard him laugh as he tried to milk one of his cows. She was tranquil in the knowledge that the land, the woods, the fields in which he walked, the animals he cared for, the certain surety of the changing seasons would bring a small measure of hope to the man she loved. Hope!

  Now, somehow, she must heal herself for she had not gone unscathed in the battle.

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  IT WAS APRIL. Tom was in the garden, his hand protectively in that of Meg’s daughter as they watched the playful, excited antics of Will’s new puppies, bought to take the place of the old dog whom they had sadly missed, farm dogs of the kind used for sheep and to be trained for work when they were ready, Will said, though of what sort he did not specify. They leaped about the garden chasing shadows and each other and Meg heard Beth laugh and saw her rest her face against Tom’s hand. Tom looked down at her and his eyes were in that moment, calm, the haggard look of fear gone in the child’s loving acceptance of him.

  The wind lifted the peak of his cap and mischievously whipped it away, and for several minutes the child and the puppies were engaged in an exhilarating chase which brought roses to Beth’s cheeks and a smile to Tom’s face.

  The garden was filled with the young growing things of spring. The lawn was a smooth emerald green and the dogs made a frantic eddy of movement on it as they raced round from the back of the house. Tom followed slowly behind, moving with the leisurely step of the country man. He had developed it at Silverdale, ambling at the gait of Atkinson, the gardener, an elderly man with his origins in the soil where crops were planted and harvested in season, where cows calved and mares foaled all in their own good time so what was the sense of hurry. It had embraced Tom, that view on life and now his damaged mind had need of it, was more secure in the ways and pace of what grew in the earth and of the animals he helped Will to tend.

  When he had first come home, white-faced and trembling at the least noise, his hand fumbling for hers, often clutching at the very air in his desperate need of something to hold, Meg had remembered how he had once smoked a pipe. She had bought him another one day when she was in Buxton and given it to him, not to smoke as he used to, but just to allow those thin, fluttering hands a focus in their dreadful search for deliverance from terror. For a week or two he had held it gratefully, clung to it when the trembling began and it had seemed to comfort him, giving him a frail lifeline back to safety.

  ‘Why don’t you try some tobacco in it, Tom?’ Will had said. ‘My old Grandad loved a pipe of baccy. Said it gave him a bit of peace from all the female clacking tongues when he couldn’t stand them any more. He reckoned the ladies were none too keen on the smell of pipe smoke and my granny was a right old chatterer so when he’d had enough of her he’d light up that old pipe of his and go off down the garden to his shed and she never followed him there!’

  The simple tale had made Tom smile and the next time they went into Ashbourne he asked her hesitantly if she would bring him some tobacco. He had coughed a time or two when he lit it, then smiled.

  ‘I think I’ve done this before, Meggie,’ he said, pleased with himself as though to recapture a pleasant memory was a wonderful achievement. The small task of lighting the pipe, of getting it to draw to his satisfaction steadied him on many an occasion when he was struck by what he apologetically called his ‘shakes.’

  Now smoke wreathed about his head and Meg, as she watched through the sitting room window was suddenly struck by how elderly he looked. His back was slightly stooped and his tumbled curly hair had lost that golden vigour of youth and become quite grey and yet he was still only thirty-one. Where did that vital, merry-faced young man go, she thought wearily as her eyes followed his slow progress towards the gate in the high wall which ran at the side of the house. The one with the infectious good humour, the enthusiastic capacity for work, who laughed and gave joy to others, bringing harmony where there had been strife. Who was strong and yet gentle. She could see him now with his bright head thrown back, the arch of his brown throat, the curve of his brown cheek glowing in the sunshine of the back yard in Great George Square. She could feel the swell of his youthful shoulder muscles under her hands as he raced her along on the tandem, his shouted encouragement turning heads along the road. His grin had been lively, his wit not sharp but droll. His bright mind, the width and depth of his compassion, his willingness to listen and simply be there for those who needed it. His charm had been endearing and yet he had revealed a quality of endurance which had brought comfort to others, which had brought him and many of his comrades through four years of devastation, only succumbing to the horror of it when his strength was no longer needed. He had given her peace in the past and his love for her had been the rock on which she had re-built her life after Martin’s death, but she did not love him in return! She loved him … aah how she loved him for he was Tom and was as dear to her almost as her own child, but her love, her love was still somewhere in France, buried in the earth where Martin was. Martin … oh my dearest … my love …

  I shall never be free, she thought bleakly. Never be allowed to quicken in the joy of passion again, to be enlivened, stimulated by a mind and spirit as sharp as my own. To lie in the arms of my love, to be loved and sighed over, to whisper in the night, to feel strong and possessive arms about me, to feel the hot kiss of need, the urgency of need … dear God … the desire … a man’s strong body …

  She groaned, deeply ashamed then tapped on the window and when Tom turned, waved to him and was rewarded by the way his face lit up at the sight of her. Beth waited for him at the gate, her hand held out to him with the simplicity of a child, not understanding, nor caring that her father was different from other men. They both looked back to her and waved, and Martin’s eyes glowed from his child’s face and Meg turned away, a small sound of pain escaping from between her lips, then she stood up abruptly, smoothing the soft camel wool of her skirt about her hips. She had a lot to do this morning if she was to return to work and it did no good to dwell on the past. She had Beth … and Tom.

  He watched her undress that night and his man’s eyes admired her firm, pointed breasts, the slim neatness of her waist and the womanly curve of her hips. They ran down her white, straight back to her rounded buttocks and lingered on the incre
dible length and shapeliness of her legs but when she turned and saw him looking at her and, astonished, smiled the smokey golden smile of a woman’s invitation, his eyes lifted to hers and in them was merely the trusting love, the need, the almost innocent longing to be held, not as a man, but as one who is lost and longs to be found and comforted.

  ‘Meg, come to bed, sweetheart,’ he begged and she knew the meaning in those words had nothing to do with desire.

  ‘Let me just brush my hair.’

  ‘I’ll do it for you.’

  She knelt in the bed, her back to him. He knelt behind her, his knees on either side of her body but there was no languorous tension, no delicious trembling, no heightened awareness, no soft laughter nor whispered kisses of what was to come. He brushed her hair, every stroke filled with his deep, deep love, a despairing love for the war had effectively emasculated Tom Fraser and as he grew stronger and more aware, his mind knew it and, as he did on so many nights he wept his frustration in her arms until he slept.

  Will brought the Vauxhall round to the front of the house at eight o’clock the next morning and they all came out on to the gravel path to wave her off and for a moment she thought it was going to be alright. The puppies were there, jumping to Tom’s hand and the other was clasped in Beth’s. Will stood behind him and put a hand on his shoulder and Tom tried, he really tried to stop his head from shaking and his mouth from trembling, terrified beyond words to be without her, even for a few hours, but she felt her heart plunge in despair for how could she leave him … how … how? She had deliberately dovetailed the relationship between Will and himself, giving him a bond to which he could unite whilst she was away. He had accompanied Will in the fields and the gardens, about the stable yard, planting, digging, feeding the animals, walking the boundaries of the estate – which he had never left since the disastrous day at the airfield – and it had been for the sole purpose of getting Tom used to being without her, to relying, not just on her, but on the strong and gentle man who walked beside him each day. There were others in the house to watch over him. Annie, Edie Marshall, Sally Flash, no longer servants but friends now who loved him. She must work. Her inn and her hotel were gone but Martin’s factories must be kept working, must be organised under her own firm leadership as they had been since Martin’s death in 1914. Fred Knowsley, Peter Dobson the designer, all her other managers were excellent men, picked and trained, many of them, by Martin himself, but they needed a hand to guide them, someone to make decisions, to find a market for their product and to sell it when one was found. She had her investments, those she had made years ago. The war had created advantage for those willing to take a gamble and many businesses had been readily available to those with some cash to spare, as their owners marched off to war. Many were killed in the trenches and their widows were only too glad to be rid of the small workshops, the factories, the builders’ yards, masons, cabinet makers, coach-builders and bootmakers, carried away on the tide of patriotic fervour which swept them to their deaths often left thriving concerns and Meg had speculated successfully in many of them, putting in men who could run them for her. They brought in a comfortable income on which to support her household but she could not let go unfinished what Martin had begun. There was not even a headstone to mark his place, where those who loved him could remember him, so this, what Meg did, must serve as his remembrance.

  ‘My darling, what is it?’ Meg’s compassion for her husband was absolute. She took his hand. Will and Beth and Annie watched the familiar scene unfold itself as Tom was wrapped about in the comforting love of his wife. It enclosed them all, that love, touched them all, bound them together in this tragedy.

  ‘What if I should …?’ Tom’s face was deathly afraid.

  ‘What … tell me, sweetheart?’

  ‘If I should …’ He could not even speak the words to describe the dread he lived in. But Will Hardcastle, with the instinctive knowledge which is often given to those who are themselves damaged, was ready and Meg thanked God for the day she had met this man so many years ago.

  ‘I was wondering if you could help me today, Tom. You see I’m not much good with tools …’ which was untrue, ‘and with you having worked with a carpenter in the past, I was wondering … well, I had this idea of setting up a small woodworking shop in the corner of the garage. I thought you could advise me on what wood to get. We could make things …’ The vague wave of his hand gave the impression that whatever they were he and Tom would have themselves a wonderful time. He had the interest and enthusiasm of a boy of twelve and Meg could see Tom’s eyes begin to clear and his own interest lifted the corners of his mouth in a half smile.

  ‘A workshop …?’

  ‘That’s what we need, Tom. When the days are wet we could …’

  ‘What a splendid idea, Will. We could make a … a …’ He was confused then, unsure of what it was they would build, unsure of what he was about to say, his brain which had once been alive with humour and a willingness to take part in anything which sounded fun, awakened only momentarily, but Will finished the sentence for him.

  ‘… a chair for the garden. How about that? For Mrs Fraser to sit on in the sunshine …’

  ‘… and one for me as well, please, Daddy.’ Beth looked up appealingly into Tom’s face, absolutely without doubt that he could do it and Tom began to smile and Meg knew it would be alright … this time!

  It was the first step and it was taken hesitantly by Meg Fraser but the day would come when she would be forced to attend full time to the growing needs of Martin’s companies. The Royal Flying Corps and the Royal Naval Air Service had amalgamated in April 1918 to become the Royal Air Force. The government, under Lloyd George had no time for the newly formed service and the economies which were enforced lay over its grave. The ‘war to end wars’ was over and ahead was a bright new future with peace assured for generations to come so what did they want with the fledgeling air service, they asked. Economies must be made and the enormous number of men and women, the machines they flew and maintained were no longer needed. Major aircraft builders were finding themselves out of work but those who believed in the future of aviation were fighting for survival and Meg Fraser was one of them. She must at first revise the smaller factory to manufacture urgently needed consumer goods until civil aviation could find its feet since the demand for military craft was almost finished. Large, luxury motor cars, enormously expensive to tax were being built by some of the bigger companies but it was the lighter vehicle which would be the most popular. The twenties would see the appearance of a new type of motor car, the motor car for the man in the street and Meg meant to produce it. She had it in mind to develop a new company which would finance the start of the airline she intended to build, based on Martin’s ‘Wren’, and its successor which Peter Dobson was already working on. She must run her young business alone now. Martin was gone and Tom as well. Like her daughter he must be loved and protected, given support and comfort when he was hurt and it was up to Meg alone to bear it.

  She must do as Martin would have done had he come home to this bright future ahead of them.

  Martin! It was almost five years since he had left her on a tide of promises which his death had left unfulfilled. It was not often she allowed herself the indulgence of deliberately bringing him back for the pain it caused her was more than she could stand but now she did. He had seemed to be about the hangar that day as Fred had taken her on a guided tour, just as though he was intent on seeing what was to be done with his ‘Wren’ and his Hunter automobile, and she had fancied his ghost would always haunt this place he had loved. And it was here that they had loved, here in this small sitting room with the fire playing on the pale walls, here where his child had been conceived. She let him slip in to her thoughts though she knew it would tear her apart. He came slowly, softly, like a shadow which has no menace, but is merely a hazed form with no substance. He took shape, stepping from the firelight with the same indolent grace, the same audacious smile, the famil
iar amused tilt to his dark eyebrows as though to say what the devil did Meggie Hughes imagine herself to be doing dreaming of a ghost. She smiled at him, knowing he would understand and held out her hands and he captured them swiftly, as he had captured her heart, her body, in a single dazzling moment. She had always loved him, but she had not known of it until that moment. He had held a place for her in his masculine heart, waiting for her to step into it, knowing before she did that it must happen, that it would take but a heartbeat when it did. He bent to lay his cheek against hers and she could feel the warmth of it, the smooth, just shaved texture of his flesh and smell the sharp, clean fragrance of lemon soap which lay about him. He grinned then, high-spirited, mettlesome, dangerous even, to those who would oppose him but she would not, his expression said, for she was his love. His eyebrows were thick and silken, black and fierce and she put out an enchanted finger to smooth them, then reached up to push back the tumble of his heavy straight hair from his brown forehead. His eyes were a deep, tobacco-leaf brown and she could see her own face in them, two tiny smiling Meg Hughes and she watched herself lift her lips for his kiss. She sighed and stretched her long body as it warmed to his. She waited for him to undo, one by leisurely one, the buttons of her silk blouse, sighing, dreaming, lingering over it and when she slipped, eager now as she had been then from the dainty lace of her bodice she heard him groan in the physical desire of wanting her, and she whispered his name …

  ‘Martin … Martin … Martin … Martin.’ She was weeping helplessly, her voice loud, desperate, angry! She had fallen to her knees and she clutched at the settee on which she and Tom had been sitting half an hour ago and the agony, the slashing pain cut at her for she was alone … dear God, she was alone and her body agonised over it for it wanted Martin Hunter’s and he was dead! She had deliberately let her mind play a vicious trick, bringing him back, putting his hands on her breasts and his lips about her eyes and throat and the female core of her had melted from the ice in which it had been preserved for five years and come savagely alive, devouring her and now … now she must quench it and go to the bed she shared with Tom. She sobbed helplessly, burying her face in the cushions to muffle the sound and for a while Martin Hunter’s ghost stayed at her back, beseeching her to look round and see his smile but she dare not. She dare not!