There was a scratching from the other side of the door and it opened a crack and Miss O’Hara fell back from the apparition
which
swayed there. If she had not known better she would have said Megan Hughes was suffering from a hangover! Her face was grey, quite shapeless really as though the flesh had slipped somewhat and her eyes had sunk an inch or two into her skull, deep and dusty and blank. Her hair fell in tattered swathes about her face just as though she had pushed her hands through it time and time again.
‘Megan … my God … what is the matter with you, girl?’
Megan Hughes could remember nothing of the night which had just passed. She recalled
his
face, of course since it would haunt her until the day she died, and the words he had spoken to her, and the ride in the lift with the solicitous cellar man and her own pathetic gratitude when, concerned about her, he offered to take her to her bedroom door, for really Miss Hughes, who everyone knew for the sprightliest of girls, had seemed quite out of her mind about something. She had groped her way inside and the rest was shut away somewhere in her head for she could not remember straining every muscle in her back, as she must have done, to shift the heavy dresser across the door and even then her fear had driven her to push the bed behind it for that was where it lay, barring Miss O’Hara’s entrance.
‘Megan, my dear … are you ill? You look dreadful.’ The housekeeper managed to push her way through the small space between the door and the frame, then turned to stare in astonishment at the dresser and the bed, all askew behind it.
‘What … Megan … dear God, girl, have you taken leave of your senses? What on earth is going on here …’
She looked wildly at the younger woman, her own face quite appalled by the expression on Meg’s for she stood there like a whipped child and for a moment Miss O’Hara was hard pushed to remember that this was the girl she herself had picked from the floor beside her scrubbing pail and groomed … yes, that was the word … groomed for the position she now held.
‘What is it, Megan?’ Her voice had become stern and she folded her arms forbiddingly over her ample bosom. ‘Has someone been … forcing their attentions on you? Why are you barricaded in here, girl, tell me at once. If one of the men has been … has made advances then I wish to know about it.’ Not for one minute did it occur to her to suspect a
guest
! ‘My God, lass, have you seen yourself in the mirror? Now then, his name, if you please and I shall see what’s to be done …’
‘No …’
‘No! Do you mean there is no-one, or are you protecting his name? Come Megan. I mean to get to the bottom of this.’ Miss O’Hara sniffed and lifted her head imperiously. If there was anyone intimidating this young woman she wanted to know about it. She was a good girl and besides she did not want to lose the best worker she had ever known, and if her manner was anything to go by that was just what was about to happen. Megan Hughes looked as though she was about to disintegrate beneath some burden which she could not carry alone.
‘Come Megan, answer me at once. What’s to do here?’
Sympathy would have finished Megan Hughes just at that moment. If Mrs Whitley had come upon her, opened her arms and called her name, Megan would have walked into them, wailing her fear and her despair and would never have been the same again. She wanted nothing more, and would gladly have curled up on the old cook’s knee, if she had been allowed, and wept like a child. Like the child she wanted to be again, but Eveline O’Hara was
not
Mrs Whitley and would allow none of
that
, her expression said. Good honest advice she would give, if asked, and sensible support but no pampering of
her
work force. If there was trouble she would deal with it. Megan Hughes looked as though she was at the end of her tether but if she was about to hang herself with it then the housekeeper did not intend to stand and watch it. Get her back on her feet was her remedy in the only way she knew how. Hard work, perhaps a cup of tea first and in the satisfaction of doing a good day’s work this girl would recover. She was certain of it for Megan Hughes was made of strong fibre, her expression said so. It stiffened Meg’s spine and she straightened her drooping shoulders. She put up a faintly trembling hand to her dishevelled hair and brushed it back.
‘No Miss O’Hara, there’s nothing like that,’ and the housekeeper knew she was lying but admired her for it just the same. She would shoulder this trouble alone then! ‘I have a … I have not been well in the night. I did not want to be … disturbed.’ She stared at her superior quite defiantly and dared her to contradict her and the housekeeper watched her as she quite visibly pulled the damaged threads of her self-control about her. Something had badly frightened this young woman and she was determined to keep it to herself apparently but Eveline O’Hara meant to find out what it was. She would get nothing from her now. Question
her
and she might be spun off into whatever dread had held her in the night but leave it awhile, watch her and perhaps she would give it away herself. There were a number of menservants, young and self-opinionated who would gladly give Megan Hughes a tumble. The only thing that disturbed her was the absolute certainty that, should one of them have tried it, Megan would have put him in his place before he had so much as given her the time of day! It really was a mystery!
‘I’ll … I’ll have a wash, Miss O’Hara,’ Megan was saying, ‘… and get changed and be down in ten minutes.’
‘Good girl.’ The housekeeper nodded her approval. ‘And, well, it might be a good idea if you, well why don’t you take tomorrow off? Go and have a chat with your friends. Now, ten minutes, no more and in the meantime I’ll get your girls on the move. God knows what they’d do with themselves if left alone. Sit and drink tea, I shouldn’t wonder, imagining themselves to be duchesses!’
THE LARGE CROWD
held its breath as the great sleek monster roared its snarling anger. It sounded quite amazingly like a wounded beast, hurt beyond endurance but still lethally dangerous as it surged dramatically close to the lip of the banked track. It would go over, they were convinced, leaping up into the air, hurtling beyond its own seeming ability to fly but when the driver of the sleek-nosed motor car pulled it skilfully back on to its true path, the soft sighing from more than a thousand throats could almost be heard over the ferocious sound of the racing cars’ engines.
It was 1910. Since 1907, when it was built, Brooklands had been the Mecca for all driving and flying enthusiasts. It was created in the private grounds of the home of a gentleman named H. F. Locke-King, built by private enterprise and was the world’s first real motor course.
Apart from racing it was meant to provide a ground for the testing of motor cars since the speed limit on the public roads was twenty miles an hour and the police were enthusiastic in their enforcing of the law.
The first ‘meet’ was run like a horse race with the drivers dressed in ‘silks’ in the colours of their choice like jockeys and it was not until later that numbers were used to differentiate between drivers. There was a clubhouse and the ‘Brooklands Automobile Racing Club’ was formed, together with a flying club for those who were daring enough to try it! Those who were members were wealthy and of the upper and middle classes. ‘The right crowd and no crowding’ was their slogan and it was seriously meant for the club was very exclusive. The facilities were outstanding and those who manufactured automobiles were inordinately glad of them to test the speed and durability of their inventions. Anyone might compete in the races and a side-valve ‘Morgan’ had as good a chance to win as a super-charged Bentley for there were many handicap events. There were neat enclosures, white-painted rails and wooden seats from which spectators might cheer on their
particular
favourite. It was just like a racecourse and the broad sweep of the two and three quarter miles of banked concrete oval gave a marvellous sense of space.
The cars were a blur as they attempted to accelerate beyond the impossible speeds they ware aiming for but the one the crowd watched, the one it hissed through its clenched teeth over; missed its heartbeat over, drew in its breath over would not be overtaken, surging ahead, doing yet another dauntless circuit of the track. He was fearless, they said to one another, or quite, quite mad, depending on one’s point of view. Just look at the lion-hearted way he ventured his machine, and himself to the very edge of the track, risking time and time again being forced over the top of the banked track by the other machines as he overtook them. It made one’s hair stand on end, really it did, the risks he took and not one of them would change places with him, no, not for a gold clock but by God it was exciting seeing him go!
It was the Whitsun meet. Whit Monday and the holiday crowds had come for miles, some in their own motor cars, those who had the money and daring to purchase and drive one, many on motor cycles, charabancs, outings from as far away as London for the sport of motor racing was fast becoming a national favourite, not just among those who loved the machines but with those who thought of it in the same category as horse racing, but more exciting! They had moved about the paddock, staring in awe at Lord Lonsdale in his Mercedes, Malcolm Campbell in his now famous ‘Bluebird’ and at men whose names were fast becoming household. Selwyn Edge. Montague Napier. Percy Lambert. They had rubbed shoulders with two of Brookland’s most celebrated sons, Dario Resta and Kenneth Lee Guinness, admiring the dashing way in which they wore their caps with the peaks at the back, their white silk scarves and the goggles each man adjusted carelessly as he climbed into the driving seat of his open, pitifully vulnerable racing car. They were narrow, those dangerously roaring machines, their frames made of pressed steel with a flimsy covering to streamline them into the shape which might gain them a precious second in the records they strived for. They had wire wheels and not a lot in the way of suspension but the crowd loved them, and the men who drove them!
The one they encouraged, silently at first then with increasing enthusiasm as he catapulted ahead of the other cars, had caught the crowd’s fancy from the start. He was tall, broad-shouldered
and
very handsome. He had grinned, his white teeth flashing in his brown face and waved his hand carelessly to the crowd as he climbed into his machine. A young lady very blonde and dashing in a hobble skirt, tight and tubular, the very pinnacle of fashion and in a brilliant shade of cerise kissed him full on the mouth for everyone to see, quite shocking really but all part of the day’s excitement! They were not of the ordinary, these men and their women too, one supposed, who dared their lives and their young, unmarked bodies in the pursuit of speed. They, like those who entertained the public in other ways, in the theatre, the music hall and in the new, strangely flickering, moving pictures which were thrown on to a screen, as in the drama
The Great Train Robbery
, and which were now fascinating a growing audience, were of another world, came from another world where such things were commonplace, where they were allowed because of their difference to the rest of humanity, a tolerant license to display whatever emotion they cared to in public.
The crowd had become still again now, silent and deliciously afraid for surely no man was supposed to go so fast, nor so dangerously. His machine was merely a streak of yellow and chrome and the head of the handsome young man was seen to shake quite madly on his shoulders with the force of the movement and speed. His cap was long gone!
It was all over really before any of the crowd could grasp it. One moment their eyes were struggling to keep the bright yellow flash in view, waiting impatiently for it to circle the two and three quarter miles of track, and in the next women were screaming, their hands to their mouths, men were shouting hoarsely, all clutching at one another in a curiously thrilled state of horror as the machine appeared to leap into the air, all four wheels completely leaving the track, slammed onto its side where it landed, slithered along the concrete track and finally, slowly it seemed to those who watched, turned over and over and over, at each turn loosing some part of itself, a wheel, a piece of jagged metal hurtling into the cars which followed it, some careening into the members’ enclosure which stood close to the banking.
It came to rest at last, its three remaining wheels spinning madly in the air and beneath it the handsome young driver lay still and in the distance could be heard the wail of the ambulance.
He was alive, Mr Hemingway told them, and a miracle it was
too
, but he was badly injured and would have to remain in the hospital at Weybridge for several weeks. They would bring him home to Silverdale to recuperate, naturally but it would be a long while – he did not voice the awful words, ‘if ever’ – before he would race again. Martin’s left leg was fractured, four of his ribs were cracked, his pelvis and hip bone were ‘suspect’, whatever that might mean and his face was cut somewhat but he was strong, a young and healthy man and would heal quickly, the doctor assured him. There was nothing anyone could do. Mr Hemingway would be going back by train to ‘have a look at the boy’ in the next few days, he said and really, they were not to worry themselves. It was an excellent hospital, the surgeon was a splendid chap and Martin was having the best possible care.
But they did worry. She and Tom and Mrs Whitley spent the whole of the following Sunday afternoon telling each other that their Martin had a constitution as strong as a horse – look at the way he had fought in the boxing ring. He had always been ‘bobbish’, Mrs Whitley said, never ailing a day, begging for reassurance from the other two, secretly picturing her lad with his strong, straight leg all smashed up and his lovely looks gone forever! He would be as right as rain, hale and hearty and as good as new before the month of May was out, they hastened to tell one another as they gathered about the table. They smiled and pretended to tuck in to beef and dumplings and Mrs Whitley’s baked almond pudding into which she had poured a whole glass of sherry in the hope it would lift their anxious spirit, but they could not avoid catching one another’s worried glance nor keep up the pretence there was nothing wrong and that this was their normal Sunday visit.