Between Friends

by Audrey Howard

  But the doctor ‘saw’ to Tom, giving him such a massive sedative he fell into immediate and heavy sleep and Meg wished she might do the same for the pictures in her head were too terrible to contemplate.

  Three days later the police called off their search of the area in a ten mile radius of the hotel. They had covered every square inch, looking behind and under each shrub and gorse bush and rock, every stretch of bracken and heather, in every hole and gully and cleft in which a small girl could slip, and found nothing, the Inspector pityingly told the frozen-faced woman who had once been the beautiful Mrs Fraser. His men were exhausted, he explained, having spent twenty hours in each twenty-four looking for her daughter, shifts of them working round the clock with the neighbouring farmers who had neglected their own duties to search for her. It was not that they were abandoning their search, far from it. Fresh men were to be drafted but the field of their enquiries must be widened for it was clear there was … there was no more to be done around here. But Mrs Fraser was not to give up hope. No indeed. The police force of the country and of the whole of England had been alerted and if the child was to be found, they would find her. Mrs Fraser was aware, was she not, that they had done all they could in this area, he said, uncomfortable in the face of such anguish.

  They sat, the four of them, stony-eyed and grey-faced, still in the same clothes they had worn three days ago and stared, not at each other for they could not bear the pain they saw there, hardly able to contain their own, but into the desolation of the future which could hold only the horror of knowing, quite positively that Benjamin Harris had gained the ultimate revenge.

  They moved about the house in the next few days, unaware of the reporters at the gate or of the police constable who guarded them from their attentions. They moved from room to room, Will and Annie and Edie, mindless and staring, scarcely speaking, eating what was put before them by the kindly, damp-eyed women, farmers’ wives and neighbours who slipped in with soup or a cooked chicken or an apple pie, for Annie was beyond cooking, or even caring. The doctor sedated Tom and anxiously watched them all slip away into the dream world which is the refuge of the badly hurt and those indifferent to the one about them. Of the man Benjamin Harris, no trace could be found, the Inspector told them. He had not been heard of since he had finished his prison sentence years ago. It was believed he consorted with the criminal fraternity but as far as the police were aware he had broken no law since. They would keep searching, of course, and put out bulletins to the force all over the country to be on the look-out for him. Mrs Fraser must get some rest and try not to worry.

  On the first day of Beth’s disappearance two of her pilots from the Hunter field had been up in their light aircraft, swooping dangerously low over the hills and peaks and moorland surrounding ‘Hilltops’ to a distance of twenty miles, looking for a splash of scarlet which might be her child, but it was as though she had vanished into the early morning mists which came before the sun, and the Inspector was of the private opinion that they were wasting their time. The little girl could not possibly have gone so far, not on her own, and if someone had taken her … well … his thoughts were black but he did not share them with the child’s mother.

  Will, so strong for Tom, so dependable and four-square when it was needed in the past, could not overcome the guilt which savaged him. He believed that if he had been more vigilant, less taken up with his own pride in Tom’s recovery and the garden they were creating again for the summer, the child would still be alive. He knew she was dead, or worse, in the hands of that fiend Meg had told them about and his dreams, were filled with screams and Beth’s small face and he knew he was going the way of the man he had once safeguarded. He was helplessly drifting in a nightmare in which he could do nothing but sit and wait …

  But Meg Fraser, her flying suit hanging about her painfully thin frame like an old sack, heedless of the chaos which prevailed in her home, driven by her own nightmares and not knowing what else to do, took off each day from the airfield, oblivious to the men of the press who surged about her at every appearance, flying her small airplane alone and for hours on end, day after day, only returning to re-fuel, criss-crossing systematically the skies above the Derbyshire peaks and moorland which surrounded her home, her eyes searching for that splash of scarlet among the rocks, the grey and green and brown of the empty stretches below her.

  It was on the fifth day when she saw it. A speck, no more, tiny and unmoving on a steep crag, a mass of granite encircled by the sparse and tussocky grass which was all that would grow there. Sheep cropped close by and as the aircraft dropped even lower they scattered, running in waves of panic, mothers calling plaintively to their lambs to keep up. The small splash of red did not move as she put the aircraft almost onto the crag itself and for an anguished, desolate moment she knew it was nothing, no more than … than … dear God, what could it be so high on the peaks? No flowers of that colour grew up here. A piece of … blanket, perhaps, a rug left by picnickers but no picnickers came to this desolate part of Derbyshire. It was almost inaccessible, even by men on foot, high and dangerously steep. So what … what could it be?

  Her heart was thudding in her throat, filling it, choking her as she swung her little craft round in a tight circle ready to fly over the rock again. She would go even lower this time since it no longer mattered if she smashed herself to pieces on the crags beneath. She did not care whether she lived or died without, first Martin and now Beth. When he had gone she had wanted to follow him then, but he had left her his child and from that child she had been given a new life. They had been her life, both of them. Not Tom, or her hotels, or the businesses she now controlled and if she died, who would grieve her and if she died her grief would die with her.

  Putting the aircraft into a shallow dive she began her descent, aiming as slowly as she could for the crag on which the splash of colour could be seen. Down she went, closer and closer. She could feel the airplane begin to shudder in that familiar way just before a stall and she adjusted the controls slightly, feeling it respond. Nearer and nearer she got to the ground, watching, quite mesmerised, the tiny red patch come up to meet her, and when it moved and turned slightly to one side her mouth opened wide in a scream of joy and tears jetted from her eyes and her heart soared like the weightless bird she had become as she brought the aircraft out of its dive and into the incredibly beautiful blue of the skies.

  Chapter Forty

  ‘I CAN WALK it from here, thanks. It’s only up at the top of this hill.’

  ‘Are you sure? It’d be no trouble to take you up in the waggon. You look a bit done in!’

  The carter looked anxiously at his passenger who had just climbed down and was standing now in the country lane which led nowhere but to the big house at the top of the hill. It was a winding lane, he knew, and long, steep too and this chap didn’t look as though he could make it to it’s beginning, never mind its end, but the man shook his head and smiled.

  ‘No, thanks all the same. It was good of you to give me a lift from the station but I’ll walk this last bit. I feel in need of some fresh air and this is the best I’ve breathed for a long time. And a bit of exercise won’t hurt me, either.’

  ‘Well, if you’re sure.’

  ‘No … thank you. You’ve been most kind.’

  ‘Right-ho then. Good luck.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  The carter clucked at his horse and flicked the reins across his broad back and they moved off slowly in the pale spring sunshine. The man who had alighted watched them go, then listened for a long while until the sound of the horse’s hooves had faded into the distance and were gone. There was nothing to be heard in the gentle warmth of the afternoon but the chatter of a bird in a nearby bush, the rustle of the breeze in the grasses and the high whinny of a pony from somewhere up the hill. His eyes were drawn to the flight of a darting bird with swept back wings, followed by another and he watched them go, something in his eyes and on his bemused face savouring their beauty
and swiftness.

  He was dressed in an assortment of clothes, a jacket and trousers which did not match, a long belted army greatcoat like that worn by officers, a checked cap of a rather foreign style and a pair of worn leather knee boots into which he had tucked the top of his trousers. He carried a soldier’s knapsack. His face was thin, pale and weary with strain and his hair hung over the collar of his greatcoat, dark and streaked with grey, but when he turned his step was light and there was a strange glow deep in his brown eyes as he began the long climb to the house.

  She was the first person he saw, as he knew she would be for had not his eyes hungered for the sight of her for nearly five years. She was alone, as he had dreamed of her, her hands busy at some plant, her head bent, and he stopped to watch her, holding this precious, precious moment to him. She wore an outfit the colour of amber. A fluted skirt with the hem eight inches from the ground showing the lovely turn of her slim ankles, and a knitted silk jumper of the same colour which fitted to just below her hips. Her hair caught the sun and the colours in it dazzled him. A rippling foxglow, the warmth of bronze, the tawny sheen of chestnut and with a shock he realised she had cut it short for it stood about her head like a puff-ball. She turned to pick up the trowel from the grass behind her and suddenly, as though aware that she was no longer alone, she became curiously still, wary almost, and, he thought, afraid. She lifted the gardening tool in front of her, holding it as though it was a weapon and he saw her glance about her, then over her shoulder.

  ‘Will,’ she called, ‘are you there?’ but there was no reply from Will, whoever he was. ‘Will,’ she called again and he had a moment to wonder at the guardedness in her, then he stepped from the shadow of the hedge into the sunlight.

  They did not speak nor move then. She stood, a lovely frozen statue of gold and bronze and amber in her soft woollen outfit and every vestige of colour left her face and the blood drained from her brain and she thought she would faint. In her hand was the trowel and she gripped it so fiercely the fine bones of her hand threatened to break through the white skin which covered them. Her eyes, brilliant as golden crystal in her ashen face clung to his and she whispered his name, knowing of course that he was a figment of her imagination as he had been the last time and in that moment as the years and the experiences which occupied them slipped away, her love for him filled every cavity and hollow of her which had been emptied when he left, and she was in agony with it!

  His lips, that beloved mouth moved to form her name but there was no sound and she knew it could not be him for he was dead. Ghosts make no noise and this one was silent, but he looked so real. She could see the incredible glow of warmth, of life in the depths of his brown eyes, see the shadow about his chin where it was unshaven, the tiny scar he had retained from the crash at Brooklands. The ghost lifted his hand and removed the cap from his head and dark hair fell in an untidy, uncut tumble about his ears and in the darkness there was grey. He took a step towards her and for a moment her eyes fell from his face and moved down his body, taking in the rough clothing, the shabby boots, then swiftly rose to capture his again.

  Across the years Meggie Hughes and Martin Hunter looked at one another and still Meg’s brain would not accept it and yet her body, remembering the joy, registered with instant awareness who he was. But though her body knew, and her heart knew and rushed gladly to meet his in an ecstacy of reunion, her mind and her brain could not grasp it and lagged far behind.

  ‘How lovely you are,’ the ghost said and this time she heard the words and they frightened her for surely she was going mad. Twice now Martin Hunter’s spirit had come to her, vividly, vibrantly, rousing her senses, hurting her senses, bruising her own hard won but often fragile courage. He had held out his hands to her last time, smiling as he had always done, looking as he had always done but … but this time he did not smile, nor lift his eyebrows wryly in that humorous way he had, nor did he put his hands out to her. He was Martin’s ghost for he had Martin’s eyes but he looked nothing like the Martin she had known … dear God … oh sweet God!

  ‘Meggie.’ His voice was quite hoarse, his throat clogged with some great emotion and his eyes brimmed with tears. He said no more. He did not move. He seemed incapable of it now, just standing, his cap in one hand, the knapsack hanging awkwardly on one shoulder … waiting!

  Meg dropped the trowel and the trembling began in her hands, moving up through her wrists and arms and shoulders and on until the whole of her body shook violently and her teeth chattered. Tears began to run silently from the corners of her unblinking eyes and she moved her head from side to side, and her mouth opened in a great wail of grief, for if this ghost should go away and leave her alone again she would be desolate.

  ‘Dear Lord … dear God … oh God, Martin … I cannot, just cannot bear it if it is not you,’ she cried. She put her clenched fists to her mouth and sank painfully to her knees on the grass and it was then he moved. There was no hesitating now, nor holding back. He dropped the cap and the knapsack and with a great joyous shout he was across the grass to her and she felt … could feel his hands on her arms lifting her up and she stared into his wildly laughing face, not even daring to blink and then his arms were about her, holding her along the hard length of his body. She could feel the rough texture of his coat beneath her cheek and under her desperately clutching hands and she strained to get nearer to him, to get inside him where she belonged and the rippling shudders moved them both now as they wept. His breath was about her face and neck and the warmth of him unlocked the frozen, untouched heart of her and the pain was unendurably exquisite as life returned. They did not speak. They could not and for five whole minutes they did not look again into one another’s face, just stood and rocked and wept and whispered the name each loved the best in all the world.

  At last, though he did not let go of her he put six inches between them and she looked up into his face, then with the delicate touch of smoke on water he laid his lips on hers. They kissed reverently as though they had just exchanged marriage vows, then gripped one another fiercely again, kissed, and looked, and stood in a timeless, endless embrace, home again, both of them, where they truly belonged. Their cheeks were wet with their shared tears, of pain and regret, of anger at what could have been and of joy for what was!

  ‘Meggie …’

  ‘Martin … oh … oh my darling … Martin … where?’

  ‘Hush, hush … there will be time …’

  ‘I am in a … I have dreamed …’

  ‘I know, my sweet girl … and I …’

  ‘But how …?’

  ‘Later …’

  ‘I love you so … I have never stopped … never.’

  ‘I know …’

  ‘I thought I would die when they told me …’

  ‘Sweet Jesus, Meggie … if I could …’

  They were smiling into one another’s eyes, the pale sunshine capturing them in a shaft of golden beauty, their arms still about one another when Tom Fraser came round the corner of the house, his hand held in that of Martin Hunter’s daughter. He was smiling. He had found the gardening fork Meg had sent him for, right at the back of the potting shed, just where he remembered putting it … the other day … last week was it … no, longer than that … when … but his little girl, his lovely Beth had helped him and though he knew they had been gone a long time for they had seen many things to interest them, not only in the shed but along the path they had followed, he knew Meg would not mind. She had suggested they put a bed of bright peonies against the house wall and though it was a bit late, he said dubiously, to plant them, they could give it a try. He had helped Will propogate them from seed, in the cold frame and had been quite childishly delighted with his success.

  She was there, just where he had left her, as he knew she would be for she never let him down but … but there was someone with … someone with her … a man … a tall man who … a man who had his arms about and … Oh God, Andy … she was kissing him. She … his wife … hi
s Meg was … and the man was kissing her and rubbing his face against her cheek … and …

  He stopped in his own garden and the flash of the exploding shell dazzled him and he couldn’t see them any more and the little hand which held his … not Andy … no … shook his … and …

  ‘Daddy … what’s the matter, Daddy? Does your head hurt …?’ for Beth Fraser had become used to Daddy’s headaches and knew that when he had one he went to bed until he was better. The small hand pulled on his and he held on to it with every ounce of strength he had for if he should leave go … bloody hell … he’d be lost forever, he knew he would. He must not leave go of Beth’s hand, not for a minute or he would float away across the mud and the blood and the craters filled with … filled with … and there would be … barbed wire and … there was someone waiting there who … oh God … oh God, please don’t …

  It was then that the miracle happened. It must be that for what else could you call the sight of the man who had been his brother and the sound of that familiar voice which long ago … how long … it must be … and the strong arms which had held him and the fists, fierce and protective which had kept a frightened five-year-old from those who would hurt him. He had been a child then and now he was a man but still he knew Martin Hunter would always give him a hand.

  ‘Martin! Is it you … is it really you?’ His voice was high with the incredible, unbelievable joy of it. Martin, their Martin, who they had thought to be dead, was come home to them … Martin! He let go of the little girl and on trembling legs began to run across the grass, reaching out with the hand she had recently held. ‘Martin … bloody hell … where’ve you been … Martin … dear God! I can’t believe it … Martin.’

  They met, the three of them, in the centre of the lawn and their arms rose on either side of him and drew him into the circle of their love and they stood together, the three of them and wept. The little girl put her finger in her mouth and her own eyes filled with tears and her mouth trembled for Mummy and Daddy and the man frightened her, but Annie came to swoop her up and carry her into the kitchen where she had made gingerbread men and then she was held in the comfortable lap before the fire and she was allowed to eat two as a special treat.