‘She said that Tom and I were well able to get along since we were men and this is a man’s world, Meg, but that you were a woman and needed …’
‘What, Martin?’ She could not tear her eyes away from his and the joy which was beginning to throb through the veins of her body and move to her heart in great bewildering leaps was miraculous and true for it was answered in his.
He smiled. ‘She was wrong, of course, but she said you needed someone to look after you.’
‘Wrong.’
His eyes were a deep, rich brown and his mouth curled whimsically and the small scar in the corner deepened.
‘You need someone but not to look after you, my Meggie. You need someone to stand beside you, to understand you and allow you to become what your nature intended you to be. You are strong and though you are sad now you will overcome your grief and go on to fulfill whatever dreams you have. As I will. We are alike, you and I and we know each other well because of it.’
They looked at one another, sighing over the simple and obvious perfection of it. She put her cheek against his shirt front and he tightened his arms about her and as he did so Tom Fraser came round the corner of the house.
They did not see him, nor hear his approach across the grass and when the violence of him fell about them with the dreadful force of a stallion which will fight another who covets his mare, they were confounded. Their embrace had in it now, not only the unspoken awareness of what had just happened between them but their quiet grieving for Mrs Whitley. They had not kissed. They
stood
, not as lovers, but as friends who will comfort one another in any way they can and the sudden intrusion of this wild man who tore them apart so dreadfully flung them both into an unreal world so savage they did nothing but stand instinctively away from it. Martin was the first to recover and he put up an arm to defend her, just as though Tom was an intruder for in truth they could neither of them recognise this stranger.
Martin understood immediately and as he did so reality returned to Megan Hughes as well. She stepped between the two men and her face lost the luminous quality Martin had put there and sadness returned.
‘What the bloody hell’s going on?’ Tom was shouting, ready still to pull her behind him, anywhere that would ensure Martin could not get his hands on her, but she would not have it for this was not the time for it. She spoke the only words which would, at that moment, quench the jealous rage which burned in him.
‘Tom, Martin has come to … oh Tom … what are we to do … Mrs Whitley … died last night. We were grieving for her, Martin and I … oh Tom, Tom … she is gone …’ Her face crumpled and she began to weep again and this time it was Tom who put his arms about her, understanding, he thought, the frightening scene he had just witnessed. He wept too as he comforted her and looked apologetically over her shoulder at the man who was his brother.
Later they sat in the small sitting-room which was to be theirs when the hotel opened and ate the omelettes Meg had put before them, none of them hungry, still inclined to silence as the realisation of Mrs Whitley’s death was finally accepted. They spoke softly of their days as children in her care and smiled at memories only they and she had shared and the pain eased a little. The funeral was to be at the end of the week, Martin said, at the small church where lately Mrs Whitley had worshipped and which she could see from her parlour window. It seemed she had asked for it, saying it would be but a step from one home to another.
They tried to talk of lighter things ‘You look well Meg,’ Martin said. ‘Being an hotelier agrees with you, it seems, and you too, Tom. Tell me about it.’ They were in perfect unison again, their shared past linking them together, as Meg told him about the purchase of the hotel and what she intended for it and Martin watched her approvingly. She had not changed, he could see that.
She
was as filled as she had always been with enthusiasm for the task in hand, whether it be setting himself and Tom to rights, baking up an enormous batch of scones for their supper, or just, as she was doing now, speaking of the future. She had matured, not just physically but in her own character for there was an air of confidence about her. Not blazing and defiant as it had once been but a quiet confidence, one that had no need to be shouted about. It gave her a poise, a maturity which in no way detracted from the young, breathtaking beauty of her. His eyes warmed in masculine appreciation of her womanliness but he was slightly tense in Tom’s presence for it had been very evident what Tom Fraser had in mind for Megan Hughes.
They brought his motor car from the front gates where he had left it and for ten minutes they stood in the autumn sunshine and admired the machine, just as elegant as his first but much smaller. She was the prototype, he explained, of the newest, low-priced, small engined vehicles he and Mr Robert were to manufacture, and which were to be aimed at the ordinary man who was beginning to feel he had as much right as his so called ‘betters’, to ride about in a motor car. She was economical to run and could reach the incredible speed of forty miles an hour! They were to have a dozen like her on the roads by Christmas, manufactured in a small factory he and the old gentleman had bought at Camford. They were partners in the venture but he was pretty sure it would all be his very soon for he meant to buy out the old gentleman as soon as he could raise the cash. At the moment he had a half share in it. Well, it was his bloody genius – smiling, trying to put some relief in the sad day – which had made them what they were and already there were enquiries coming in from interested purchasers. He was twenty-five years old and the success he once swore would be his had come. Not just as a racing driver but as the designer and builder of the motor cars he had dreamed of since he had first climbed on to a bicycle and he was not finished yet, he pronounced for he was to push on in another endeavour – one which was almost as dear to him now, as his passion for the motor car. His eyes were clear and steady with that bright light of determination which was as familiar to Meg and Tom as the lamp which had once shone serenely in the centre of the kitchen table at Great George Square.
‘This year, 1913 has become known as “The Glorious Year of Flying”, did you know, and that’s just what it is, by God. Earlier
in
the year I went over to Monaco for the first “Schnieder Trophy” contest … have you heard about it, no … few people have. There were only seven entries and I was one of them. It’s for seaplanes and I took one up belonging to a friend of Charles Hemingway. He was meant to do it himself but at the last minute he hurt his hand, or lost his nerve, or something. I didn’t win it but it gave me an idea of how aircraft are to develop. I haven’t flown since I got my Aero Club Certificate but damnation, if I can manage to get a craft of my own, I mean to. I’ve designed a glider. The government are interested now that the Royal Flying Corps has been founded. There are four squadrons at the moment and they are looking for likely designs.’
He was to build the glider in the hangar at Watkins Field, the ground they had bought at Camford and if he could find the finance, it would be in the air within six months. Mr Hemingway was old now and really no longer concerned with it all. Flying was for the future and the old gentleman had none but he, Martin Hunter, had and it was to be …
Tom Fraser watched him, feeling the magnetism of Martin’s strong personality pulling Meg into that fascination she had always known, a fascination she had shared in his love of anything mechanical. He himself had been the odd one out in the threesome, since for the life of him he could not seem to capture the taste for clattering along in a noisy contraption, smelly, and going so fast the beauty of the countryside could scarcely be appreciated. A bicycle was so much more satisfying, he had always thought. Quiet, slow, the exercise filling one with a feeling of well-being it was hard to beat. Now, it appeared, even the motor car was not enough for Martin Hunter. He was to take to the skies, had already done so, up there with the birds and where the hell would that lead him, he wondered, except down to earth with a crash, for surely only birds were meant to fly? He recalled the excitement they had shared at Blackpool but on looking back it had not been the aircraft which had filled him with delight, but the crowds, the sunshine, the laughter and the company of Meg and Martin. He had not believed then that it would catch on, this flying about in a thing which seemed scarcely bigger than a moth and he still believed it.
Meg leaned across the table towards Martin, the sadness of the day momentarily put to the back of her mind, as Martin had intended, hanging on to his every word, as Tom had seen her do
a
hundred, a thousand times and as she did so something sweet inside him cracked and for the second time that day he wanted to strike at Martin Hunter and draw blood. To hurt him badly and take that look of satisfaction from his face and the strange warmth from his eyes which were looking so searchingly into Meg’s. He wanted to let him see that he, Tom Fraser, though he might not be able to drive a motor car, or fly an aeroplane, had something special, something unique which Martin Hunter would
never
have.
He broke into their absorption with one another, his voice harsh with his ragged jealousy.
‘You haven’t told Martin our news yet, Meggie.’ He held himself rigidly for suddenly he was aware that the following moments would be, strangely, the most important of his life.
She pulled her gaze almost angrily from Martin and he was dismayed by the expression in it.
‘What …?’ She did not seem to know what he meant.
‘You haven’t told Martin about you and me.’ His eyes softened with his pride and his deep and endless love for her.
‘What about you and Meg?’ Martin stood up abruptly, his long body threatening, for of course they had no need to tell him. It was there in Tom’s wondering face and it was there in the dreadful agony in Meg’s eyes and at last he understood his own unease, that sense he had of something hidden and here it was, out in the open and in that moment he was stricken with pain for he had left it too late!
But had he? Meg Hughes was looking at him and Tom at her and the expression in her eyes was puzzling. She seemed bewildered, strained, even guilty and he knew with a certainty that was born of his love for her that it was the look of a woman who is completely unsure of what she did.
‘We are to be married, Meg and I!’ Tom’s voice was rough with possession and Martin wanted to smash his fist into his mouth, the mouth which had just spoken the words.
‘
Married
!’
‘Yes, aren’t we, sweetheart?’ He reached across the table and took her surprisingly flaccid hand in his and Martin felt the need, the violent and dangerous need to dash his hand away from Meg for she was his,
his
!
He turned to her, not trusting Tom, it seemed, to tell the truth.
‘Meg.’ His voice was menacing. ‘Is this true?’
‘Yes.’ Her’s was anguished.
‘When?’ He spoke harshly, the word uneven and Meg shrank away from him.
‘Oh … soon, eh Meggie! As soon as I can get her to name the day.’
‘I see.’ That was all before he turned away from them, his face dark, vital and burning with the simple conviction that as long as he had breath in his body Meg Hughes would never belong to any man but himself.
‘I’ll see you at the funeral,’ he said and for a horrified moment they all three realised that they had forgotten Mrs Whitley had died that day!
The tall, middle-aged gentleman was elegantly dressed in the style of a decade ago, suitably formal for the occasion. Frock coat, dark trousers, black waistcoat, silk hat with a black cloth band, black gloves and tie, in strange contrast to the simple folk with whom he stood.
The funeral cortége made its short journey from the tiny cottage just inside the gates of the estate to the church on the other side of the lane and the thirty or so plain folk who lined the route removed their caps or bent their heads and so did he, in respect for the dead woman who was to be laid to rest.
‘Poor soul,’ the gentleman said piously, ‘may she know eternal peace.’
‘Aye, a fine lady and a dab hand with a fruit cake.’
‘Jack!’ The plump woman who stood next to the speaker, nudged him, scandalized.
‘’Tis true, and nowt to be ashamed of.’
The elegant gentleman smiled agreeably.
‘Indeed it is true for I have tasted it.’
‘You knew her then, sir?’
‘Indeed I did. Mrs Whitley and I were old friends. When I heard she had passed on I could do no more than pay my last respects.’
‘She was a grand old girl, sir, no mistake.’
‘And her … the other mourners, the three young people …’
‘Aye, she thought the world of them three all right.’
There was a pause as they passed through the church gate, then, ‘They … Megan … does not live hereabouts any more?’
‘Nay, she went up aways from here.’
‘So I believe.’
They had begun to follow the coffin, carried by the two tall young men in black and two others, presumably from the estate where the deceased had lived, up the leaf covered pathway and the splendidly attired gentleman fell into step besides his new acquaintances.
Meg was drifting in some soft, quite painless memory of the days when the old lady they were burying had ruled the three of them, when the face which smiled sympathetically at her from beyond someone’s shoulder, sharpened and came into focus. It was a thin face, pallid as though from confinement, and deeply grooved and the eyes which were set in it were a pale, almost colourless grey. It was a long time since she had seen it and yet in that moment, that one split second of recognition, her mind was curiously unsurprised as though it saw nothing remarkable in its re-appearance. Why, it asked quite coolly, had she imagined that it was over, that the man who had terrorised her young life, who had done his best to drag her down to his own depraved level, who had sworn revenge on her as he had been pulled from the dock where
she
had put him, would merely shrug his shoulders and walk away. Twice she had been the instrument, or partly, of his having been imprisoned and yet, in her naivety, once he had been behind bars, she had given no further thought to his words.