They talked easily for another half hour, forgetting the time and when they remembered it in the bustle of attending to the bill, of running hand in hand to the Vauxhall, of starting her up
and
singing all the way back to Silverdale, Martin completely overlooked Meg’s failure to answer his question.
IT WAS TWO
weeks before her seventeenth birthday when she finally made up her mind to speak to Mr Hemingway. They were home again, he and Martin from God only knew where this time, somewhere up north doing trials in readiness for the French Grand Prix she had heard, but if she did not look sharp Mr Hemingway, who was to be home for three days only would be gone again and her opportunity missed. She did not know why she did not consider Mrs Hemingway. Perhaps it was the old lady’s vague though kindly manner, her quaint state of always appearing to be in another world, an unworldly world in which she would not have the slightest idea on advising Meg how to go about it.
Young Mr Hemingway, Mr Charles Hemingway – who had never been as interested as his father, nor did he have the time, he said, to chase about the world in the pursuit of the thrill of racing – was a distant figure in Meg’s world, seen only at the dinner table where she served, aloof and somewhat forbidding, and his wife, young Mrs Hemingway was the same. There was often talk, respectful naturally, in the kitchen, on the difference between father and son and the two Mrs Hemingways, but then the old gentleman was retired and had time for a chat and a joke with his servants and Mr Charles was concerned, as head of a vast shipping empire, with its daily running and could not be expected to do the same. So Megan waited, knowing instinctively that it was the old gentleman she should speak to. The months had gone by, the months in which her fear of Benjamin Harris, when he had made no further attempt to interfere in her life, had dwindled. It was a year since that day in the spinney and she let out her breath thankfully on the realisation that he really was gone, finally, from her life. She had seen Mrs Whitley housed and content. She had watched Tom settle like a dog in the sunshine, turning about a time or two but finding his place at last and Martin, well, she had no part in his life, in the making of it, nor in the defending of what he had already made of it. Her actions
made
no impression, had no influence on his and whatever she did, wherever she went, his work would continue just as it had for the past three years.
She was free
!
‘Come in, Megan, come in,’ Mr Hemingway said when she knocked on his study door, beckoning to her to stand before him by the side of the enormous fire which burned in the hearth. He had a cigar and a glass of whiskey on the table at his left hand. He had eaten a splendid dinner which she herself had helped to serve and he was in the mood, if it was in his power, to dispense largesse to anyone who asked it of him.
‘Ferguson tells me you wish to speak to me.’
Ferguson had been most put out when she had asked his permission to have a word with the master, quite furious when she had told him it was a private matter and she would prefer a private interview!
‘I can speak for you, girl, if you will tell me what it is about.’ His lofty disdain was very evident for was she not merely a parlourmaid and clearly, his expression seemed to say, would be better served if she were to confide in him and let him negotiate for her. Perhaps she was of the opinion she might get a rise in pay, or better conditions, promotion even, if she spoke personally to the master. Ferguson liked to know exactly what went on, not just in the household he ran but in the minds of those whose manipulator he was and Meg’s defiance of him rankled.
‘Thank you, Mr Ferguson,’ Meg said, her expression stubborn, ‘but I must speak to Mr Hemingway myself.’
She did not fidget, nor show signs of nervousness but stood quietly before him, pretty as a picture Robert Hemingway thought in her simple black and white maid’s outfit. The fire’s glow and the soft electric lamplight burnished her hair to the brightness of copper. It was pulled back and up severely, a huge chignon held at the crown of her head with neat, unobtrusive combs but here and there a vagrant curl had escaped to drift to the nape of her neck and over her ears. Her cap – how did it stay on that thick and springing mass, he thought? – was frilled and most becoming and in the gentle light he could see the rose flush in her creamy skin at the cheekbone and the brilliant, excited glow in her eyes, the only sign she showed of her emotion.
‘Now then, Megan, what can I do for you? You have no
complaints
, I trust.’ His eyes twinkled merrily for he had not forgotten her heated defence of Mrs Whitley over a year ago.
‘Oh none, sir. I have been most … most comfortable here.’
‘Comfortable Megan? Not happy?’
She would not lie but neither did she want to appear ungrateful.
‘My time here has been most useful, sir and it is you I have to thank for it but now I have to move on …’
‘Move on, Megan! What on earth do you mean? You have a home here with us, surely? Mrs Stewart, so my wife tells me, speaks most highly of you and it is clear you have a future before you. Like Hunter you are a hard worker but you also have a quick mind, as he does and the two qualities combined will enable you to reach a good position in the household …’
‘Thank you, sir,’ she interrupted politely, ‘but that’s not what I want!’
‘What
do
you want, Megan?’ His old face was quite astounded. He was of the generation in which the female sex had two choices. To be married and bear children, supported by a husband, or to go into service. Of course in the industrial areas there were women who worked in factories and mills but not nice little things like Megan who was as well mannered and decently brought up, in a different way of course, as his own wife. She and Hunter and that other lad – what was his name? – were a credit to the orphanage and to old Mrs Whitley who had continued their training and he had thought all three to be decently settled! Now, here was Megan wanting to be off and Hunter, for the past month or two pestering him – could you credit it – for flying lessons of all things, and a year in which to design and build his
own
racing car! He did not expect fulsome thanks for what he had done for the three of them, far from it for they had all turned out to be keen, conscientious workers. He had derived enormous pleasure from Hunter’s enthusiasm and talent for racing the motor car and from his quite extraordinary ability to be good company when they were alone together on their travels, which was often. He had turned out well and was fast becoming quite the young
gentleman
but Robert Hemingway was not entirely certain he wished to be involved with the hair-raising and extremely unstable pastime of flying!
But Megan was standing here, obviously eager to tell him what
she
now needed and he supposed he must listen.
‘Well?’ he said gently.
‘I have thought about this for a long time, Mr Hemingway. I
have
not considered it lightly, nor on impulse.’ She had evidently rehearsed what she would say to him carefully. ‘I dare say I could manage it without you for I am not without a tongue in my head and I am certain I could convince whoever is in charge to consider me. Despite this I would be grateful if you would give me a “character” and perhaps use your influence to help me. I wish to apply for a position at the Adelphi Hotel, you see. I wish to go into the hotel business, Mr Hemingway, sir, that is what I wish to do!’ Her young face was in deadly earnest and Robert Hemingway suppressed the desire to smile. The hotel business! What on earth was she talking about? She would do exactly there what she did here with no higher expectation than housekeeper and under much more stringent control. There would be no ‘family’ atmosphere as there was in this house. She would work hard and long, starting as she had done here, he supposed, as kitchen maid. He had no real knowledge himself of the running of an hotel but he imagined it would be not much different from a large house so why on earth did she want to move?
‘Why Megan?’ he said. ‘What can it offer you that we cannot?’
‘I want to own my own hotel, sir. One day!’ Her face was very serious.
Dear God, substitute the word ‘hotel’ for that of ‘motor car’ and it might be Hunter speaking. Were the two of them in league? Had they got together and dreamed up this preposterous nonsense between them of motor cars and hotels and going into business on their own account, flying high on their youthful enthusiasm, or were they, perhaps, two of the most extraordinary youngsters he had ever had the fortune – or was it misfortune? – to come across? He didn’t know, really, he only knew that the child was looking at him trustingly, quite certain that he would not smile, nor frown but would take her at face value, believing, that she was quite, quite serious. After all his own sister, the well-known, still active Mrs James Osborne, Lacy Hemingway that was, had made her way in a world filled with male scepticism of the female ability to do anything other than breed their sons!
‘It has been in my mind for a long time, sir, but I did not know where to start … that is until I was taken … well, sir, I dined at the Adelphi some time ago …’ Like Mrs Stewart, Robert Hemingway marvelled at Megan Hughes’ choice of words, her phrasing for she sounded like no parlourmaid
he
had ever spoken with. ‘… and it was then that it came to me that the only way
to
begin was at the beginning. In other words, at the bottom, sir. I was brought up in the hotel trade, in a manner of speaking …’
‘You were!’ The old gentleman was quite astounded.
‘Oh yes sir. What else could you call the house at Great George Square, if not an hotel. Oh, not in the same class as the Adelphi …’ She smiled infectiously, ‘… but what we did in Great George Square is exactly what is done in any hotel. We had guests who must be made comfortable. They had clean beds to sleep in and good food to eat and were treated courteously. I know that is a very simple way of putting it, Mr Hemingway, but can you tell me I am wrong. They did not eat hors d’oeuvres or paté or pétits fours but what they did eat was well cooked and presented. They did not sleep between silk sheets or walk on velvet carpets but they were warm and comfortable and clean. And I liked them, sir, and they liked me.’ It was said simply with no intention to boast. ‘I got on well with them though I could speak no more than a few words of their language. It gave me a good feeling to see them made … tranquil and at ease and to know that I had given that to them. But at the same time I am a good … a good housekeeper, sir. I can budget. I know how to … what’s the word … balance comfort with profit, combine the two, if you know what I mean. So you see, sir, Great George Square, the Adelphi Hotel, the travellers’ needs are always the same, whatever their class. And now, since I have worked here at Silverdale I have seen what … if you will pardon my frankness … what luxury is! I have seen the food that is cooked and served to those who would stay at an hotel like the Adelphi. I have discussed wines with Mr Ferguson …’
‘Ferguson! Good God …’ Robert Hemingway’s mouth fell open.
‘Yes sir. Now I realise I have a lot to learn but what I am saying is I already know a lot. And I know that I want to be a hotelier!’
He was silent for so long Megan thought he had dozed off in the way the elderly have. His face was in shadow and she could not see the sharp interest in his eyes.
‘Sir,’ she said tentatively.
‘Yes, Megan. I am still here. Now tell me just what you want of me?’
‘I want a job at the Adelphi Hotel, Mr Hemingway.’
‘I see, and what position would you like?’ He smiled good
humouredly
for it crossed his mind that if she said manager, and got it, she would have tackled it with the enthusiasm of César Ritz, the genius who ran Europe’s finest hotel, named after him, in London, but Meg was needing none of his light manner. This was her start. This was to be the first step on the ladder she would climb and she did not intend to have jokes made about it. Mr Hemingway had been very good to her, to all of them, more than good really, for there were not many gentlemen who would have taken the trouble he had with three refugees as she and Tom and Mrs Whitley had been. He had eased her own way that night, through the pain and despair Benjamin Harris had inflicted on her, sharing the dead weight which draped her shoulders and had tried, in his anger at what she had gone through, to punish the culprit. He had done his best. He had given her an arm to lean on and a fresh start when she had rested, but now she wanted him to do this one last thing for her. After that she would make it on her own.
‘I don’t care what I do, Mr Hemingway, as long as it gives me a chance to get on. All I want is a job there, any job and I’ll show whoever is in charge what I’m made of. A reference is what I want sir, and perhaps a word from you. The word of an important gentleman does nobody any harm, Mr Hemingway.’ She dimpled and dropped her eyelashes demurely and Robert Hemingway was made fully aware that Megan Hughes was not averse to resorting to a bit of flattery if it got her what she wanted. She knew how to work, to work hard and to learn from it. She was skilled in the art of how to get on with those above her. She had a good head on her shoulders and knew how to use it and by God she deserved a helping hand. His Alice would be sorry to see her go for a good servant such as Megan was hard to come by but really, it would be interesting to see how far she could get.
She started on the first of October. A kitchen-maid, the housekeeper said, sniffing, for it had got round that the new girl had been spoken for by one of Liverpool’s most influential gentlemen and what might that mean, they all wondered. She was pretty enough and when she arrived at the staff entrance on that first day she was smartly dressed in a dove grey skirt and jacket with a white ruffled jabot at her neck. Her hat was large and fashionable with a drooping brim and a white tulle rose pinned to the side. Completely unsuitable Megan knew for a kitchen-maid but she
was
Megan Hughes and this was the way she liked to dress – they were not to know she had made the outfit herself from a remnant bought at St Johns Market – and she was damned if she would arrive at her new job looking like a little brown mouse just to suit others. Start as you mean to go on, Mrs Whitley always said and that was what she was doing. Elegant she looked in a way they could not understand for surely – she could see it in their manner – if she was the fancy piece of a rich gentleman of the city she would hardly be working as a skivvy in the kitchen of the ‘Delly’.