‘… automatic lubrication …’
‘… three speed epicyclic gearbox …’
‘… preselection of the two lower gears …’
Their faces were animated in their shared enthusiasm ‘… but this isn’t getting your engine fixed is it, sir,’ Martin said at last, ‘so if I might borrow your spanner …’ He held out his hand, oil covered now and the old gentleman put the tool trustingly into it.
‘Aah!’ the two who watched in silent awe heard Martin say, ‘… there’s where the trouble is, sir. Can you see, just there.’
The old gentleman obligingly looked where Martin’s finger pointed saying politely. ‘I really had no idea …’ and ‘how very interesting …’ and ‘well, I’m blowed …’
Martin turned peremptorily to Tom at one stage and ordered
him
to leave the bicycles and give the starting handle a crank. He had to show him what to do, of course, for Tom stood there uncertainly, staring at the thing which had been thrust in his hand, not sure which end of the vehicle he should approach and when he had ‘cranked’ and still nothing happened and he had fallen back winded on to the grass verge, Martin begged the bemused gentleman to check ‘that the petrol cock on the feed pipe from the petrol tank to the carburettor was on!’
‘Er … where exactly is …’
Martin sighed, then remembered that he was dealing with not only someone who knew
nothing
about the motor car he drove but was one of Liverpool’s most influential residents and therefore must be treated with respect.
He spoke politely. ‘Never mind, sir. Tom and I will see to it.’
He moved about the vehicle with all the aplomb of the Hon. Charles Stewart Rolls himself, one of it’s designers, and Tom sidled after him, impressed beyond measure and, if he were honest, not a little fascinated by this marvellous invention which he was seeing at close quarters for the first time.
‘D’you know what the hell you’re doing?’ he whispered at a critical moment and was silenced by Martin’s withering expression!
With nothing to do the elderly gentleman sauntered across the sunny lane to Meg.
‘As I can be of little help here perhaps you would allow me to relieve you of one of those machines, young lady?’ he said courteously. ‘And I think it would, at this stage, be only polite to introduce myself. Robert Hemingway at your service, miss.’ He bowed gallantly, taking the tandem from her and wheeling it some yards away where he let it fall against the bank, carelessly crushing harebells and golden rod which grew in profusion there. Meg, her face glowing with heightened colour did the same with Martin’s machine then stood awkwardly, not quite sure what to do next or even how to address this cultured being who stood casually beside her.
‘Are you from about here?’ he asked her smilingly.
‘Liverpool … sir …’
‘Liverpool! And do you cycle this far very often?’
‘Oh no sir! Only when we get time off.’
‘I see, and where do you work, Miss … er … Miss …?’
‘Meg, sir, Megan Hughes.’
‘Miss Hughes.’ He tipped his yachting cap in a courtly fashion and Meg was enchanted. ‘And what is the name of my saviour over there?’ He waved a hand in Martin’s direction.
‘Oh, that’s Martin, sir. Martin Hunter.’
‘He evidently knows a lot about motor cars, Miss Hughes.’
‘Oh yes, sir!’ It was said proudly as though part of it was her doing.
‘Is he employed in a mechanical capacity?’
‘He’s odd job man, sir, but he can mend anything! Anything at all!’ Meg’s eyes beamed into those of the elderly gentleman’s and this time
he
was enchanted for with the sun filtering through her copper curls she looked exceedingly pretty. Old enough to be her grandfather he might be but that did not mean he could not appreciate beauty when he saw it.
‘
Odd job man
!’ he protested. ‘And where, pray, does he work, for wherever it is he is wasted!’
Meg glanced away diffidently for she knew by now who this man was and felt in some way he ought to know
her
. Hadn’t she and Tom and Martin worked in his employ for the past four years and yet …
‘What is it, Miss Hughes?’
‘Well sir, by rights you should call me Meg, sir!’
‘Oh, and why is that?’
‘Well … I … we work for
you
, sir. The three of us!’
‘You do?’ He looked quite disbelieving as if to say he would certainly have remembered at least two of this remarkable trio if he had come across them before!
‘Yes sir, Mr Hemingway, in Great George Square at the emigrant house. I’m a maid and Martin and Tom are …’
‘Odd job boys!’ He finished her sentence his eyes crinkling in a friendly way but in them was a speculative and strange expression. ‘Well, I’ll be blowed.’ he added slowly.
‘Yes sir!’ She smiled shyly.
‘And where did he get his knowledge of motor cars, this Martin Hunter?’
‘From books and Mr Hale at the bicycle shop lets him mess about there and he goes to night school …’
‘From books …!’
‘Yes sir. He’s very clever with his fingers, is Martin.’
‘I can see that, and a very enterprising young man from what you tell me.’
A thoughtful expression settled itself about Mr Hemingway’s face and he fingered his moustache as he watched Martin tightening something or other beneath the bonnet.
‘Give it another turn with the starting handle, Tom,’ Martin called and this time, as sweetly as the thrush which sang in the hedgerow beside the lane the engine burst into life and so did the motor car, shuddering gently like a horse which is eager to be away to the starting line.
Mr Hemingway took Meg’s arm, handing her across the narrow lane as though she were a grand lady until they stood beside the vehicle. His face, ruddy and gleaming like a polished cider apple smiled in delight and he reached to Martin and took his hand, shaking it enthusiastically.
‘Well done, young man! Well done, indeed. I don’t know what I should have done had you not come along. There cannot be a repair shop within miles.’ He looked up and down the empty lane. ‘It was foolish of me to come out alone but my chauffeur – well, he goes by the name of chauffeur but he is a most reluctant one – was occupied with a defect in my wife’s carriage, which he much prefers to the machine anyway and I wanted to test the engine on this … this beauty.’ He looked worshipfully at the splendid motor car and went on as though he was speaking to himself. ‘A damned coachman he is and will be nothing more even though I had him taught to drive when I myself learned but his first love is the horse and I must say …’ He shook himself from his meandering as though suddenly aware that he had an audience who, politely, was listening to his every word.
He smiled warmly. ‘Still it was a stroke of luck for me when you came by. I would like to thank you in some way …’
Martin smiled deprecatingly but his eyes burned a hot, velvety brown as though the joy which consumed him was blazing throughout his body. His face was streaked with oil and he had deposited a fair amount from his hand to that of Mr Hemingway but the old gentleman seemed not to mind.
‘This young lady tells me that you are in my employ, Hunter … is it …?’
‘Your employ?’
‘Yes. I am Robert Hemingway. I own the emigrant house in Great George Square.’ He nodded and smiled at Meg.
Martin’s face was a study of mixed emotions. His eager youthfulness to be about what he loved best in the world was overlaid
with
the polite regard one must show to one’s employer, but there was something else, something instantly recognized by the old gentleman for he had seen a few such in the world of the shipping magnates, and some in his own family. It was, quite simply an utter belief in the rightness of what Martin Hunter meant to be! He knew who he was and where he was going and though he had been temporarily bemused by the realisation of who he was addressing, Robert Hemingway recognised that this boy was not overawed by him for he knew his own worth!
‘Indeed sir, we did not know … We have worked there for four years now … Tom as well … he helps me …’ Creditably he included Tom who stood quietly beside him. He
had
helped and it was only fair he should be acknowledged, his gesture seemed to say.
‘Of course,’ Mr Hemingway said smoothly, giving Tom his due but it was evident that Martin was the one who interested him.
‘I believe you have had no training, Hunter, in the mechanics of the motor car, bar the attending of evening classes?’
‘No sir.’
‘And that you picked up most of what you know from books?’
‘Well …’
They stood for a moment, two pairs of eyes regarding what was evidently a shared love of the sweetly purring machine. Martin’s hand rose involuntarily and with the tenderness of a mother, stroked the quivering bonnet. Robert Hemingway did not miss the movement, nor the expression in the young man’s eyes. He cleared his throat and Martin looked at him, his soul exposed and yearning in his eyes.
‘Well, I must be off or my wife will think I have had an accident. She hates this contraption, as she calls it. You know what women are.’ He smiled and Martin smiled back as though the two of them shared something unique. Climbing into his motor car Robert Hemingway put it into gear, raised his cap to Meg and with a cheery wave, moved off, turning the corner with a triumphant flourish. They could hear the noisy sound of the engine for several minutes in the peace-filled quiet of the country road, then, as it died away, the trill of the thrush, silenced by the commotion, was taken up again.
‘Well!’ said Tom, his eyes a wide and brilliant blue in his tanned face. ‘What d’you think of that then?’
‘What?’ asked Martin absently, still staring towards the corner where the automobile had disappeared.
‘Us talking to the great man himself! Wait till we tell Mrs Whitley. She’ll never believe us.’ He grinned engagingly at Meg and she grinned back but Martin silenced them.
‘Never mind him! Did you see that engine? Did you? And it was me that got it going!
Me
!’
His expression glowed with an enchantment so rare and lovely it lit his face and eyes to a strange beauty and Meg felt her heart shift painfully in her chest. The sensation was strange and uncomfortable and she put her hand to her breast in alarm but Martin was not yet finished. He began a slow shuffle, his feet moving in a tapping rhythm in the dust then with a shout of abandoned joy he raised the thrush from its perch and his arms lifted and his fingers snapped and he could not contain the emotions which filled him. Taking her in his arms he began to whirl her round and round until she could not breathe and their laughter rose up, high as the thrush and Tom watched and laughed with them.
The note came that evening. It said simply that Martin Hunter was to present himself at ‘Silverdale’ the home of Robert Hemingway first thing the next morning!
‘WAIT THERE, BOY,’
the high-nosed, black-suited man said and Martin did as he was told, standing quietly in the spacious square hallway where he was put. He looked about him. His eyes marvellously clear and sharp, wandered from one lovely object to another but he did not fidget and his hands were relaxed at his side, one loosely holding his cap. Only his mouth gave way his inner excitement and it was fixed in a determined line, almost grim, though the curled corners showed it’s inclination to laughter.
In the centre of the hall was a round, silkwood table, polished so lovingly over the years the reflection of the copper bowl in its centre was as detailed as if it stood on a mirror. In the bowl were roses, pink and scarlet, a vivid fusion of colour to light up the softness of the gently shaded room. Against the walls stood delicate little chairs upholstered in green velvet and a grandfather clock ticked in a stately fashion standing between the two arches which split the rear of the hall and through one of which Martin had just come from the kitchens.
There were wall sconces which had once held candles, now artfully made over to illuminate the hall with electric light and at the back of the room, beyond the arches, long and symmetrical were Georgian windows curtained in green velvet. Paintings lined the walls and Martin’s eyes flickered across them. Though he was not interested in such things it did not take an expert to see they were family portraits for each face had same similarity to its neighbour. He studied them, moving his gaze round the walls from the two he deduced must be the first Hemingways by the style of their dress until he came to the last. It was of a girl with silver gilt hair and eyes the same colour, like moonlight on a stretch of smooth water. Her expression was bold and yet charming. There was strength in the beautiful face which still retained a feminine softness, an intelligence, and yet an impertinence which Martin found endearing. He liked her whoever she was and he found himself returning her impish smile.
There was a soft click and the door through which the butler had disappeared, opened and a gloved finger beckoned imperiously.
‘The master will see you now.’
Across a vast expanse of deep pile carpet, miles of it and all cluttered with tables and spindly gilt chairs, what-nots, glass-fronted cupboards, tall sideboards and rosewood sofas and what seemed to Martin to be hundreds of ornaments, bric à brae, crystal, ivory, and in the centre of the room standing just in front of the elaborate fireplace was an elephant’s foot! What the hell can that be for, he remembered asking himself wildly as he set off across the room, following the stiff, sure-footed back of the man who knew the way, placing his feet where the butler put his! It was like a minefield and he stepped hastily through it, glad to be on the other side!