Through another set of doors and this time Martin was momentarily brought to a standstill for the sight which met his eyes was truly enchanting! This was where the roses in the hallway had come from and wouldn’t their Meggie have given her eye teeth to get a look at this, was his barely coherent thought. It was like a garden brought indoors and housing the most exotic plants Martin had ever seen, plants he was certain had never grown in the stark unpredictability of the North! The floor was of some polished wood all set in a beautiful pattern, glossed until you could see your face in it and the walls were
entirely
of glass. He lifted his head and his eyes strayed over the exquisite moulding of the roof, high domed and glass ceilinged and the man who led him in flicked his fingers irritably as though to say he was not here to stand and stare. Martin followed him past white painted wrought iron tables and wicker chairs heaped with bright cushions, pots in a pleasing brick colour and all erupting with vivid plants and above his head, brushing his hair with their trailing leaves were hanging baskets of flowers. There were fluted pedestals on which stood small statuettes, singing birds in cages, plants and more plants, so many Martin was quite bemused and there, in the very centre, lifting his face to the rays of the sun was the old gentleman whose motor car Martin had so recently rescued!
He was sitting in a comfortable chair, his eyes closed in that light, half dozing which is the habit of the old. His head was wreathed in tobacco smoke from a cigar which hung from his relaxed fingers and the tiny, bird-like woman who sat beside him waved her hand in the air to disperse it, fruitlessly, her expression
said
as though the gesture was so habitual she hardly knew she did it!
The butler cleared his throat and the old gentleman opened his eyes and they both turned, the woman to stare with interest, but the old gentleman sprang up as though Martin were an honoured guest and must be treated with the greatest respect.
‘Martin Hunter, sir.’ The butler uttered his name as though it was something quite offensive but his merry faced master cared nought for that and moved forward, holding out his hand agreeably.
‘Hunter! How punctual and how very good of you to call!’
Martin was quite non-plussed for was he not this man’s employee and what else was he to do if his master called except run hastily to his side, but he was not yet aware of the special qualities of naïve friendliness and old world gallantry which Robert Hemingway had possessed since he was a boy. Not in his sixties as Martin had originally thought but seventy-three now, he was the younger son of the great Charles Hemingway himself, once one of Liverpool’s greatest shipowners and the brother of the famous, some said
infamous
, Lacy Osborne, a shipping magnate in her own right. Robert had inherited his elder brother’s share of the shipping line and also this house, on his brother’s death. He was himself retired, the business run now by
his
son, another Charles.
He was in his last years and there would not be many more, he was the first to admit and in them he had discovered a passion for the motor car. His wife said indulgently that he was in his dotage, his second childhood and she washed her hands of his foolishness. They had been married for over forty years and in that time his tranquil and kindly outlook on life had led them through a contented and uneventful marriage.
‘Is this the young man, then, Mr Hemingway?’ she said, studying Martin from the tips of his well-polished boots to the arrogant set of his dark head. He was well turned out, neat and clean, but his thick, straight hair fell in a defiant tumble across his broad forehead. He had cycled from Great George Square, speeding as fast as the pedals would go round to get to Silverdale by ‘first thing’! He was not sure when exactly that might be so best be on the safe side and at half past eight he had knocked on the kitchen door, snatching his cap from his head as he did so.
‘Good God, man, Master’s not even up yet!’ he was told by a pert kitchen maid. She eyed him appreciatively though, liking the
set
of his broad shoulders and the brown depths of his long lashed eyes. His young body was firm and hard and straight and yet already it had a kind of indolent grace which signalled his complete masculinity and his own knowledge of it, and what’s more, it’s impact on the opposite sex. His eyes warmed her, admiring her rounded prettiness and despite his errand, or perhaps because of it and the importance of this moment, his amber skin seemed to glow with life. He smiled and the corners of his mouth lifted and the maid caught her breath, quite enthralled by the curving delight it promised. His teeth gleamed for a moment between his lips and his expression seemed to say if only he had the time what pleasures they could share, then an elderly woman had called sharply, enquiring who was at the door and the maid stepped back regretfully.
He sat where he was told and ate gratefully the bacon ‘butty’ pushed roughly but amiably into his hand and watched the early morning preparation for the running of Silverdale swirl smoothly into action. There seemed to be more servants here than there were in all of the houses in Great George Square put together and all under the direction of a black-gowned woman he had first thought to be the mistress.
And the snotty-nosed chap who ran
her
was, it appeared, the butler and a more miserable bugger he had yet to meet, he secretly told himself. He watched as the man reduced same poor little skivvy to tears and longed to get up and defend her as he would their Meggie but as soon as the butler and the housekeeper left the kitchen to enjoy their own breakfast, the atmosphere relaxed and it was almost like being at home. Someone whistled and there was laughter and the young maid who had let him in sidled up to him saucily, asking questions about why the master wanted him. He answered truthfully that he did not know. He said nothing of his hopes!
‘Well then, Hunter,’ Mr Hemingway said genially, rubbing his hands together with every sign of satisfaction and looking him up and down as his wife had done. ‘Now this is Mrs Hemingway …’
‘Ma’am.’ Martin inclined his head respectfully but looked directly at Alice Hemingway as he did so and old as she was she could not help responding to the attractiveness of his smile. There was no boldness in it, not for her, since Martin knew his place but it had a boyish charm she was quick to recognise as a woman and she smiled back.
‘… and this is Martin Hunter, my dear. He’s the young man who got me going yesterday. D’you remember me telling you?’
He sat down but did not motion Martin to do the same. Martin stood quietly and waited. ‘Martin Hunter?’ Mrs Hemingway murmured. ‘Oh yes, and where do you come from then Martin Hunter?’
‘From Great George Square, ma’am,’ he replied politely.
‘Ah yes, my husband told me that. You work as … as boot-boy, is that it?’
‘No, no, Mrs Hemingway … I told you, he’s odd job man …’
‘Is there a difference, dear?’
Robert Hemingway sighed and looked at Martin.
‘Well yes, I think so, my dear and I’m sure Hunter would say so. Not many boots to clean at an emigrant lodging house, eeh, Hunter?’ He laughed and winked and slapped his thigh and Martin warmed to him. ‘Not part of your duties at all, I’d say?’
‘No sir.’
‘Well, I don’t see why not,’ Mrs Hemingway interjected, then stood up suddenly and made a little sideways sortie to a springing growth of Bougainvillaea with dark green leaves and flowers of cerise, scarlet and deep pink. With a tiny pair of pruning shears which she took from a deep pocket in her morning gown she delicately removed a leaf, dropping it carefully into the same pocket.
Her husband watched her fondly as though they had all the time in the world.
Martin waited patiently.
‘I meant where did he come from before that, Mr Hemingway?’ she went on as she returned to her chair.
The old gentleman turned smilingly to Martin.
‘Hunter?’ he questioned.
‘I was in the orphanage, sir, until I was twelve.’
‘The orphanage, oh dear, oh dear, dear!’
Mrs Hemingway stared at him, then sighed deeply, shaking her head at the apparent wickedness of the world.
Mr Hemingway waited for a moment politely, to see if she had anything else to say, then returned his attention to Martin.
‘Now then, where was I?’ he said briskly.
‘If you don’t know then I am sure we don’t, do we Hunter?’ Mrs Hemingway smiled engagingly.
Martin was just beginning to think the two delightful but
dotty
old people had forgotten what it was Mr Hemingway had summoned him for when the old gentleman leaned forward and said abruptly.
‘And are you content with that, Hunter?’
‘I beg your pardon, sir?’
‘Does your work give you satisfaction?’
‘Well … I’m not … unhappy, sir, but …’
‘Yes?’
‘Well … I …’
‘There is something else you would rather be doing?’
‘Yes sir!’
‘And what is that?’
‘Motor cars, sir!’
‘I thought so.’ The old man leaned back in his chair satisfied.
‘Sir?’
‘Six-thirty tomorrow morning then, Hunter. I’ll arrange for someone to replace you at the emigrant house. Report to Andrew. He’ll show you the ropes for a few days and then we’ll get down to it. Once you’ve the hang of the steering you’ll have no difficulty. It’s just a question of practice. Of course my son and I will have your progress monitored but I’m perfectly certain there will be no problems. A chappie we know has been to a few races in his day. France, Germany, Italy, America so he can recognise a decent driver when he sees one. He raced in the ‘Gordon Bennett’ last year in Ireland and came second so he knows what he’s about. And your knowledge of engines will give you an enormous advantage. We’ve been keen to get in on it for a few years now, ever since it began but of course, we’re both too old.’
He chuckled and his wife raised her eyebrows and rolled her eyes heavenwards. ‘… so we decided the only thing to do was to get our own man,’ he continued. ‘Put him through his paces in the Isle of Man, or perhaps Ireland and then see what he can do against the Americans at Daytona Beach.’
He leaned forward, apparently unaware of the rigidity and death-white face of his guest.
‘I was impressed by your confidence and expertise yesterday, young man and it seemed to me you have a natural flair for the motor car. It’s new yet in terms of years but we’ve watched it grow, my son and I and we’ve learned to spot a man who’s as keen as we are and who knows what he’s about and it appeared to me that you are just such a man. A bit young but that’s to the
good
. You have time to learn and your enthusiasm will see you win, I’m positive and that’s what we want, a winner …!’
He stopped suddenly.
‘What’s the matter, Hunter? Have I said … my dear chap, you look quite … see, Mrs Hemingway, ring the bell and get Ferguson to fetch a brandy. I think the poor fellow’s about to swoon …’
He didn’t quite know how he cycled the half mile along the meandering driveway from the house to the gates which led into Aigburth Road. He had to contain his jubilation until he got there for it would not do for the gardeners who worked about the lawns and flower beds to think he had lost his wits but the moment he was out of earshot of the gatekeeper’s lodge he put his feet on the handlebars of the machine, raised his arms in the air and yelled his joy to the meadowlark which hung above him in the sky. A thrush which was feeding on the berries of a rowan tree beyond the hedge flew wildly for cover and a flock of sheep, browsing the fields of Jericho Farm scattered, their heads up and wildly bobbing but he was not even aware of them, nor of the open-mouthed astonishment of those he passed on the country road.
He’d done it! He’d done it! He’d done it!
Oh dear Lord, at last he was to work with the thing he loved best in the world, at what he knew best, at what he was best at. The skill he possessed was to be used and in a way that even he had scarcely dreamed of! He was to start tomorrow morning with Mr Hemingway and when he had learned to drive – and that wouldn’t take him long, best part of five minutes, he reckoned – they were going to try him out as a
racing driver
. He, Martin Hunter, was going to be tested against men like S. F. Edge and Charles Jarrott, go to France, Germany and when he was ready, to Daytona Beach in America to race against the great Barney Oldfield!
Mr Hemingway had explained, when Martin had recovered somewhat from his first paralysing shock that he must be prepared to work in other capacities around the garages in which were housed the Hemingways’ growing fleet of automobiles. He was to look after them, keep them maintained to the highest peak of perfection an internal combustion engine can achieve, but whilst he was doing this he was to be taken to any track which was available to him and given a chance to show if he was capable of joining that select few who were simply called ‘the fastest men on earth’!
He would need plenty of practice but that would be no problem, Mr Hemingway said with the enthusiasm of a boy. He and Charles – his son, he explained – were keen to match their new machine against the best the racing world had to offer and if Martin lived up to expectations he did not see why they should not have a good chance of winning a race or two! Show the world what the Lancastrians were made of! It wasn’t only great ships that came out of Liverpool, eh Hunter?