Martin’s smile deepened. ‘What’s up, me old scouser?’
‘Nowt.’ Tom’s voice was sharp. It was now, when he was put
beside
Martin that the gulf which had grown between them was most apparent. Tom’s casual flannels and open-necked, collarless shirt were haphazard, appearing as though they had been thrown on that morning, the first thing that came to his hand. He liked what were called ‘peg-top’ trousers, comfortable, with a loose waistband and braces, wide thighs and knees and tapering at the bottom of the leg. He could tuck them into the tops of his boots he said and they were practical for the job he did. His cap was pushed to the back of his head to reveal the short crop of his golden curls.
But it was not just in the way they dressed that the two young men differed. Tom had not changed from the easy going good-natured lad he had always been. The new position he had acquired as the proprietor of a country inn, as he still thought of it, had in no way brought him a sense of his own importance. He had not gained the urbanity Martin had, nor his discriminating taste for the good things in life. In their different ways they had become men, and in their different ways they were going about the business of
being
men, and as Meg looked at Martin she quite failed to see the expression which clouded Tom’s boyish face, and was quite amazed when he put his arm tightly about her to walk up the slope of the lawn to Martin’s beautiful motor car, but Martin did and a truth was born between them that day. It was something which both momentarily recognised but neither would admit to, since after all, they were brothers but Megan Hughes stood between them, not as she had always done, to be protected and watched over, to be kept safe from other men, but amazingly, from one another! It was over in that brief fraction of a second and, startled, they smiled warily, then nodded, two young animals not awfully sure what the other was up to.
When Martin drove away he did so with the insolent swagger of a man who knows exactly his own worth, borne up by the absolute certainty that he and his automobile were, without doubt, the finest on the road. Edie viewed their combined magnificence from the safety of the porch and sniffed. Racing car, indeed! All flash and glitter in
her
eyes and so was
he
and not to be put in the same class as Mr Tom who was a grand lad. She had heard Miss Hughes plead with the handsome strutting chap to stop for a taste of her steak and kidney pie, telling him that it had only this moment come from the oven and that there were fresh strawberries
grown
by Tom and cream from their own cow but he only laughed and kissed her cheek.
‘Martin has things to do, Meg,’ Edie heard Mr Tom say quietly and knew quite positively that he was glad when Martin said he really must go but he would be back as soon as he was able, perhaps after the racing at Brooklands, whatever that was!
The sunshine wrapped about the couple who stood in front of the porch, falling in a warm curtain of gold and as the monster roared away Edie thought what a lovely couple they made. It filtered through the open doorway and into the wide passage, softly touching the polished red of the quarry tiled floor and lapped gently in a receding wave at the white-washed walls. Copper glow was picked out from the warming pans which hung there, buffed to brightness each day by herself, and a magnificent profusion of Mr Tom’s early roses, flaming in crimson and scarlet, burned in an enormous copper jug on a low table at the foot of the stairs.
She watched them come in and as Mr Tom sauntered off, whistling cheerfully now – to the back of the house to have a last look at his lettuces before it began to rain as he was certain it would – she hoped that the chap would stay away for really Miss Hughes and Mr Tom were better off without him and certainly did not need the disturbing influence he seemed to bring!
IT WAS AFTER
midnight and Meg stared sightlessly towards the half drawn curtains which fluttered at the open bedroom window and beyond to the summer darkness and wondered what it was that had awakened her. She turned her head on the pillow and listened but the sound did not repeat itself. Perhaps the dog had moved against something in his restless wandering in the dark, disturbing an ornament on a table or the brush which hung beside the fireplace in the kitchen, or was it the echo of the barking of the dog fox in the spinney which had awakened her?
She shifted fretfully, pushing aside the sheets which snarled about her, lifting and straightening them, then settled herself to sleep again but her body was disturbed now, alive with the vividness of the half forgotten dream from which she had awakened. She could scarcely remember it, but Martin had been in it and his warm presence was still with her in a strange and distracting way and it left her … well, she could only call it … tingling and subject to rhythmic spasms of some half remembered feeling she had no name for, but which was unnerving and decidedly uncomfortable.
She punched her pillow violently, turning to lie flat on her stomach, tossing her mind feverishly back and forth between tomorrow’s menus and yesterday’s takings, to the problems of where she would accommodate the three young American cyclists – they had descended upon her that afternoon with the wild enthusiasm of their nationality declaring they must have a room, even to share, for three nights and were at this moment on camp beds in the attic directly above her!
Perhaps it was this which had rendered her so restive. The American accent was quite distinctive and Martin had picked it up slightly when he was in their country, and she had learned to recognise it from the many young people who toured the country, some, as they artlessly confided, searching for their roots!
She tossed her thick plait of hair away from her shoulders. It
was
heavy and hot as it unwound itself about the pillow and she muttered irritably, swearing she would have it cut off. She turned again, rolling to the edge of the bed, flinging her arms across her closed eyes. She wished she could sleep again. They had been frantically busy since Easter and the inn was now filled with tourists, young people, like the three Americans, mostly men who were cycling from one end of the country to the other, intent it seemed on missing nothing from the craggy cliffs of Cornwall, the soft downs of Devon, the grandeur of the Cotswolds and northwards through the Derbyshire peakland, the Yorkshire Moors and gaily on to ‘do’ Scotland! Anywhere a bit of lovely countryside presented itself or a place of historical interest caught their imagination, they went. They poured in hordes, not only from other countries as far away as America, but from every town and city in Britain where a young man or woman might afford the price of a bicycle! From nearer home, Manchester, Bolton, Wigan, St Helens, Liverpool and Stoke-on-Trent on a day’s outing, moving on to Chester or North Wales.
‘The Hawthorne Tree’ was now on the ‘Cyclist Touring Club’s’ list as suitable accommodation for its members and was a favourite stopping off place. The inn was packed out every single night of the week, the farmers, their labourers, cottagers, woodworkers from the forest area, men from the local saw-mill and those who worked in rural jobs in the vicinity, dropped into the ‘Hawthorne’ for a pint or two. Meg’s food had become well known for its tasty goodness and cheapness and many of the men who were single ate their evening meal there regularly. The nearest public house was over in the next village of Little Davenport, only a mile or two as the crow flies and though these men had been prepared to leg it over there a couple of nights a week there was no need now they had their own local. It had not been just luck on Meg’s part that she had picked a village which did not enjoy its own public house, and she gave thanks that it was doing even better than she had hoped for, but though these men were the bread and butter of her business she was after the jam to go on it!
The cyclists and the hikers came. They sat in the ‘snug’ or the public bar, or if the weather allowed it, on benches in the lovely gardens Tom and Zack had created from the wilderness and drank beer and shandy and cider and ate heaped platesful of her roast meats, steak and kidney pie, veal pasties, cheese, pickles and Whitstable oysters which were inexpensive and tasty, before
‘pushing
on’. If they had come far then they would stay the night, lovingly bedding down their machines as though they were thoroughbreds, in the stables at the rear of the inn.
Meg sat up and sighed tremulously. It was no good. Her mind was as active as a hive of hornets stirred up with a stick! Easing herself from the bed, on edge and restive – that energy which had always been her’s keeping her from sleep even after eighteen hours on her feet – she moved to the window and sitting down on the padded seat Tom had made for her, she looked out into the impenetrable darkness that was the countryside at night. Not a light showed anywhere for those who must be up at dawn did not spend the hours allotted for sleep in any other activity! She could hear the faint echo of Edie’s snores from the far reaches of the attic bedroom she slept in and the creak of a camp bed above her as one of the travellers turned in his sleep.
She sighed again and rested her head against the leaded panes of glass. She wished she could rest. She had so much to do, so much to plan in her mind but though her body was weary her thoughts would not let it rest. She stirred awkwardly, then stood up, stretching her arms above her head. She would go downstairs and look at the accounts and tomorrow’s menus. That would stop her mind from wandering about in useless circles which led nowhere. It was what she and Tom were doing, and would do in the future which must concern her now. They lived amiably side by side and she knew he was a contented man. He enjoyed what he did at the inn each day. He had no responsibilities for Meg dealt with everything from the ordering of the beer and spirits, the food which she herself prepared to the payment of the bills and the servants’ wages. She told him when to open the bars and when to close them, when another barrel was needed and even, since she had compared his clothes to those of Martin, what he should wear in his position as the owner of a successful hotel!
And he liked being the owner. The men who frequented the inn looked up to him, affording him the respect given a man who works for himself. He got on well with his customers as he had done with the men he had once worked with at Silverdale, since it had always been in his nature to like his fellow men and to have that good fellowship returned.
She herself helped to bring in the men who drank there since she was not blind to her own attractions, nor the looks which the men gave her when she laughed with them. A hungry look, it
was
, as though they would like nothing better than to get to know Tom Fraser’s partner more intimately. The field was open to all comers, they knew that, for Tom himself seemed not to be interested, though there were those who were convinced and said so to the others, that he had a certain look about him which said a man should take care in his hearing when he was speaking to Megan Hughes! Her magnificence was like the splendour and warmth of the sun to the men who drank in the low-ceilinged rooms and her superb body was a constant lure to them. But the strange thing was, they said, she appeared to have no conception of her own beauty, which was a kind of beauty in itself, nor the effect she had on them, but they treated her respectfully and brought her their custom again and again and that was all Meg cared about.
She and Tom made a good team since he knew the men’s admiration and banter meant nothing to her. Indeed he took part in it and the atmosphere was convivial to those who were their customers in the bar. They had been successful in what they did. It was almost eighteen months since they had begun and in the first year they had made a clear profit of over
£
500 and already this year they had doubled that and the loan from the bank was completely repaid. The inn was theirs and the deeds to prove it lay safely locked away in a tin box in her desk. She had even made one or two investments, under the guidance of Mr Chancellor, the shrewd bank manager Mr Hemingway had recommended, in the world of stocks and shares. Tom had been stunned beyond speech by Meg’s boldness, longing, she was sure to put their profit in a sock and keep it under the mattress, and could not understand that these small enterprises in which Meg invested could bring them further dividends.
‘But Mr Fraser,’ Mr Chancellor had protested, when he and Meg had gone to pay the final part of the loan, ‘you cannot allow capital to lie about unemployed!’
Capital! Unemployed! What in damnation was the man talking about, Tom’s expression said and Mr Chancellor, relieved to have one member of the partnership who knew a sovereign from a farthing, turned again thankfully to Miss Hughes whose bright intelligence and quick grasping mind knew exactly what Mr Chancellor meant. She was eager to take his advice which was most gratifying and learned quickly. She read the newspapers he told her would be of interest to her in business, those dealing with
finance
and when she turned her deep amber gaze on him as she stood up to shake his hand and thank him for his help, he was quite bowled over by the disparity between the two partners. A nice enough chap with a most personable disposition but Miss Hughes was so attentive where one could only say he fidgeted. She was level-headed and far sighted but he seemed as merry and careless of their money as a ten year old, saying cheerfully that it was for spending, wasn’t it!
The inn was silent. Meg cocked her head to listen as the faint bark of the dog fox sounded from across the fields towards Three House Farm. It would be after Jack Thwaites’ hens again. Downstairs she heard the yellow dog stir and knew he would be at the back door, nose to the doorstep as he tried to sniff out the scent of his old enemy. He gave a small warning growl and she smiled. He would not bark unless the fox, or indeed any intruder came within the inn’s yard, but he could not resist letting whoever was out there know he was to be reckoned with. An intruder himself, wandering in one day soon after they had moved into the inn, he had settled down as if he had as much right to be there as they did and he guarded his territory zealously.