There was a roaring, snarling, rattling sound which grew louder and louder and Meg drew back uncertainly, reaching for Tom’s hand but Martin stepped forward, climbing up the small incline until he stood amongst the trees, staring mesmerised across the lawn at the monster which had drawn up to the door of the house.
‘What is it?’ Meg whispered fearfully though of course she knew for had they not seen more than a dozen or so about the
streets
of Liverpool. It was just that the first time you came across one in the flesh, so to speak, it was a frightful shock.
‘It’s only a motor car,’ Tom whispered back.
‘
Only a motor car
!’ Martin’s voice was coldly scathing. ‘It’s not only a bloody motor car you fool. It’s a “Rolls-Royce” three and a half litre V8! A six cylinder … Oh Sweet Jesus!’
‘Martin …’
‘Where are you going, you daft sod …’ Tom’s voice was agonised and Meg put out a hand as though to hold Martin back but it was too late!
‘Dear God … He’s going to get caught if he goes any nearer,’ she whispered frantically.
But Martin Hunter was no longer of their world, nor indeed any world at all for he was in his dream, the one he dwelled in whenever his young mind was not occupied with cleaning knives and peeling spuds and polishing lamps and fetching coal. He moved with wary masculine grace towards the magnificent motor car. It’s driver had climbed out and gone inside the house and the faint click of the cooling engine could be heard in the quiet, darkening twilight.
The sun had fallen behind the grey smudge of the far shore across the river but the last light of the evening illuminated the machine. It glimmered like a precious jewel on a dark stretch of velvet, the lights from the house glowing on its polished surface.
It was truly the most beautiful thing Martin Hunter had ever seen! He stood before it, bewitched and when he put out his hand to it he might have been about to caress a beloved woman. His fingers touched the shining bonnet then moved to the high mudguard, trailing lingeringly across the smooth surface.
‘God help us,’ whispered Tom, ‘he’s going to get in the bloody thing!’ He and Meg watched with the fascination of total horror as Martin Hunter stepped for the first time into a motor car and though it was almost dark by now they saw the flash of his white teeth as he smiled!
For the time being at least they must be satisfied with their bicycles, Martin said as though sooner or later a motor car would be delivered to the front door of the house, and truth to tell Tom and Meg
were
satisfied and during that summer and autumn they rode as often as they could together, going further and further afield as their confidence grew but it seemed that Martin, having
seen
and actually
sat
in the sheer intoxication and joy of an automobile could be satisfied with nothing else. He took to spending much of his spare time reading more and more books, making intricately drawn plans of what appeared to be boxes on wheels, and what he swore was an ‘internal combustion engine’ though the other two could make neither head nor tail of it, and when he was not at his ‘drawing board’ as he grandly called it in the room he shared with Tom, he was at the bicycle shop with Mr Hale. Meg and Tom shared the tandem now, whilst the bicycle, except when Martin rode it to Victoria Street, leaned forlornly against the cellar wall.
Meg was fourteen in September and the childish loveliness of her which had blossomed into the beauty of a young girl began to be something else. She grew even taller and acquired that indefinable quality given to very few women which men admire but which has very little to do with her looks. It was sensual and at the same time innocent! An earthiness and yet a delicate softness which spoke of promised pleasures of the flesh when she was fully matured. Her back was straight and graceful. She had a strong white neck upon which her head was set proudly and she drew admiring glances wherever she went. Mrs Whitley often wondered where she got it from, that haughty look of a young queen. Perhaps it was something to do with her Welsh heritage, she thought, knowing nothing of them from across the two rivers except that they could sing! And Meg did that too, carolling all over the house from morning till night, cheerful as a sparrow but far more exotic!
She was lively, full of fun and liked nothing better than a good laugh and Cook had noticed lately how the eyes, one pair brown, the other blue, of the two young men had begun unconsciously to follow her swaying, graceful figure as she moved about the kitchen. They did not realise they were doing it, she could see that for they both had a dreaming quality about them which did not at that moment contain more than an appreciation of Meg’s quick wit, her bright eyes and flashing good humour. She was their ‘little sister’ and they were devoted to her and it showed in their protective manner but there was something else there now!
Meg was quick tempered but on the whole good-natured and tolerant and her affectionate approach to her companions held no more than that of a sister to two much loved brothers. She fussed them and nagged them, treating each one with the same fondness
and
irritation, scolding them if they went out in the wet without a coat like a mother with two irresponsible children and praising them where she considered praise was due!
She became weary sometimes of Martin’s everlasting preoccupation with motor cars, especially as it often interfered with what were really the loveliest outings, or would have been if Martin had come along! It was not that she was uninterested in the exciting possibilities she was keenly aware would undoubtedly make a difference to all their lives but she did wish sometimes he was not so … so
obsessed
was the only word she could find to describe him and the subject which filled his mind week in and week out! She had to admit that she was herself fascinated with the thought of travelling about, seeing the country, the world even (for Meg had no limits when it came to daydreaming) in one of the smart and increasingly reliable machines which were appearing more and more on the roads of Liverpool and the surrounding countryside. They were a nuisance at times when they thundered past them on a country road, lifting the dust in a whirlwind about their heads, settling it on their clothes and skin and causing a cloud through which they could barely see, but imagine being
up there
, actually on the high seat able to look over hedges to the fields of wild flowers beyond, and beyond that to the very horizon!
Martin would cheer wildly when one rattled past them, waving his cap and standing up on the pedals of the machine, causing no end of problems with balance but still, as she watched the automobile veer madly down the lane she admitted to herself that she wouldn’t mind changing places with those who rode in it!
And the speed at which they went! Twenty miles an hour! It meant you could get about so much more quickly and arrive at places the bicycle could not reach in a day. Meg meant to travel, to see people and places she had read about in her books and yet that was only part of it! She not only liked the idea of having a look at other parts of the world, she wanted in some way to share in the change Martin, and through him she herself, sensed was coming, because of the motor car! Not only would she hope to share the exciting fascination of their countries, their people would come and see hers!
Holidays! Travel! Movement! Would not this marvellous machine of Martin’s, when it became readily available have the effect of shifting people, ordinary people like herself who had scarce
moved
from their own fireside in a lifetime to seek out and discover what was at the end of the road, the limit of their village or town, or even beyond the shoreline of the country in which they lived?
Martin said so and though she was often in discord with him in so many matters, in this they were in agreement. Her brain would seethe sometimes as she lay in the darkness next to the supine Emm whose only anxiety was the keeping of her share of the blankets which covered them both. Her thoughts would try to regulate themselves into coherence. Somewhere in the future was her own fate. Martin was so sure of his and already was setting about it with the possessed certainty which Meg wished she could emulate. She admired him for it and envied him too and wished she could go back to school, evening classes, to learn something, but what? That was the trouble! She didn’t know what it was she wanted to do. She was perfectly happy doing just what she did. She loved seeing to the comfort of the weary travellers who crept over her threshold and nothing gave her more pleasure than to watch their care-worn frightened faces relax and grow peaceful as she shepherded them to their alloted place in the house, or put before them some tasty dish she herself might have prepared.
But where would that lead, she began to ask herself? Did she want to be a kitchen maid, or even cook at an emigrant house until the end of her days? Finish up like Mrs Whitley complacently toasting her toes at what would never be her own fireside? How was she to see the rest of the world from the kitchens of a house just like this one and if she left it, what would she do? She was well aware that Martin would be off soon for he would never be satisfied with the job he had now. A repair shop somewhere in Liverpool, she imagined, where he could tinker to his heart’s content with his blessed machines and he would get a good job once he had the necessary qualifications. Not that he couldn’t do it now, given the chance, but he needed a bit of paper to show folk, he said and besides, there was the designing of motor cars which he intended as soon as he was able and he needed his ‘certificate’, whatever that was, in order to do that!
It was at the end of September when it happened!
It had been a lovely day. A Sunday and quiet at the house and with Cook’s blessing they had taken a few of her pasties, the three of ’em and set off just before noon. They had got no send off today! They had become a familiar sight by now to those who lived in the Square and those few emigrants who still remained
after
the sailing of the
Lacy Rose III
and
Girl Sophie II
of the Hemingway Line the day before, were out seeing the sights of Liverpool before they too sailed away to their new life.
Meg almost fell from the tandem as Tom, who was sharing it with her that day, stopped pedalling, for when his feet slowed so did hers and, her balance suddenly interfered with, she jerked at the handlebars to steady herself, causing further disturbance.
Martin had come to an abrupt halt ahead of them and they almost ran into his back and for a chaotic moment it seemed they would all crash into the bonnet of the amazing machine which stood forlornly slewed across the junction of the lanes. It was bright, polished, a beautiful gleaming blue and from its surface the sun winked back at them, dazzling, blinding. The hard top was black, the bonnet was raised and all they could see of the man who had his head buried in the depths of it was the seat of his trousers! It was a Rolls Royce Silver Ghost, and Meg heard Martin whisper the name in a soft, hushed tone.
Like a man who has entered a church and walks reverently towards the altar he simply left the bicycle to crash against Tom and Meg and began the short journey from where they stood, to the motor car! A few steps only, but for him a journey from one life to another. His head was held high and his hands clenched at his sides and on his face was a look of exalted joy!
When he reached the vehicle and it’s driver who seemed momentarily oblivious to everything but what was under the bonnet, Martin cleared his throat politely. Instantly the man withdrew his head, looked at the spanner in his hand then turned and almost as though he knew that here was a man who could be trusted with his expensive machine, said simply, ‘I don’t know one bloody nut from another!’
Martin smiled. The man was a gentleman, despite his inadvertent oath, that was apparent, not just from the way he spoke and the clothes he wore but from the simple fact that he owned a motor car at all for only those of wealth and position could afford to do so! He was in his sixties but spry, with a pleasantly humorous face, high-coloured as though used to an open air life. He wore what was then described as a ‘motoring’ outfit though as yet none had really been designed for the pastime of driving about in the ‘infernal’ machine was considered to be merely a passing phase. A double-breasted reefer jacket buttoned high with a small turn
down
collar, wind cuffs with straps, trousers of twill, a yachting cap and gloves.
‘I might be able to help, sir,’ Martin said respectfully, but not humbly for was he not suddenly in charge? This man might be one of the ruling class of Liverpool but it was Martin’s knowledge that this man needed and at this precise moment that put Martin in authority over
him
.
‘Are you a mechanic then?’ the gentleman asked.
‘Not yet sir, but I know a bit about motor cars.’
Tom and Meg stood, mesmerised and frozen to the spot on which they had come to a confused halt, the bicycles every which way about them. They turned to gawp at one another, mouths slack, then looked back at Martin who now had
his
head under the bonnet.
‘Mmm,’ they heard him say. ‘I see it has six cylinders … three and half litres … the one which won the Isle of Man TT this year … what a marque …’
‘Yes, I was there …’
Martin lifted his head and turned eagerly to the old gentleman. ‘Really sir …
really
!’
‘Yes, it was a splendid race I might tell you …’
They might have been alone, two acolytes glorying in the worship of their own particular god and for quite ten minutes they spoke in words of such an extremely detailed and technical nature Tom and Meg began to wonder if they had blundered into a foreign country and were listening to a language neither had heard before.