‘Dear God … Meggie!’ Tom’s heart bucked, then surged into his throat and he thought he would not be able to speak, or even breathe. With a wild gesture he threw the flowers on to the bed, moving swiftly across the room to her side. When he got there he was not quite certain what he was to do for she looked so … so terrible he thought for one appalled moment that she could be dead. She
seemed
dead, or so dazed with some dreadful thing she was quite senseless. The hairbrush hung at the end of her arm, held somehow in her flaccid hand, but as he watched, horrified, it dropped with a soft thud to the carpet and lifting both her hands in a sudden movement, she dropped her face into them and began to weep loudly.
‘Meggie … sweetheart …’
Tom was appalled. He had never seen her in such distress and had not the faintest idea how to deal with it, nor even what had caused it. If he had, perhaps he might have been able to alleviate
it
. She was vulnerable, as all women are, he supposed, at certain times of the month though he knew nothing about it really, but his Meg had not seemed unduly concerned, and certainly she had never wept broken-heartedly as she was doing now. She was inconsolable, putting her face into her folded arms on the dressing table top and crying as though she was stricken with an unbearable grief.
‘Meggie … darling … what is it, for God’s sake?’
But it seemed she could not stop nor even speak though she allowed herself to be drawn into his compassionate embrace and when he kissed the top of her head and begged her to tell him what had upset her, she only cried the more and it was only after ten minutes or so of careful stroking and murmuring that she began to speak incoherently – saying what did
she
care for the doings of crazy men who risked their lives for a dream and weren’t all men the same, selfish and uncaring, without a thought for the women who loved them and were forced to wait until that dream was a reality, hearts plunging in fear whilst they played with their dangerous toys like children.
Tom could make no sense of it and did not try but sat her down gently on the bed and held her in his arms and waited until she was calmer before pressing her with the utmost kindness to unburden herself of her problem, to lay it on his broad shoulders, for surely there must be something seriously wrong and wasn’t that what he was here for, he asked her lovingly, to take away her worries, if she had any?
But like Martin Hunter, Tom Fraser had only the smallest conception of the depths of Meg Hughes, and the enormity of her strength. Each had but one thought, to protect and care for her, to possess her, unaware that what they saw was only a part of what she was, of what she wanted from them, from anyone. Even Martin who had entered not only her body, but the heart and spirit of her, could not imagine what it was that made her into that unique being, Megan Hughes. Even he, though deep in love with her did not understand her complex and ambitious mind nor the special principle that drove her on. If he had he might have penetrated her resolve, recognised it for what it was, understood it and allowed it to come to fruition and eventual fulfilment.
‘I’m sorry, Tom,’ she sniffed at last, taking the handkerchief he gave her and blowing her nose vigorously. ‘You’ve found me in one of those moods which sometimes come upon my sex. It’s
nothing
really. The autumn is nearly here and the winter will set in and the snow will come. It will be difficult to get about – remember last winter – and no-one will be staying here and I don’t know what I shall do with myself. You can be captured up here on these peaks for months and the very thought makes me shiver.’
She looked out of the window at the great sweep of lawn which the gardener who helped Tom, battled with each day in a never-ending struggle to keep it as smooth as a billiard table, but already the stage was slowly becoming set for the annual change from summer to autumn to winter and she was bereft, it seemed, and inconsolable.
‘It’s all so … so sad, Tom … so sad.’
‘What is, my darling? Dear God, Meg, this is not like you. I have never seen you so down before. What has happened to make you like this? You are the most optimistic person I have ever known, cheering up others with your high spirits and certainty that everything would be right in the end. Believe me I should not have got through the last four years without your complete faith in what we were doing.’
‘Tom … I’m sorry, forgive me …’
‘There’s nothing to forgive,’ he said smiling, since he did not know what it was she spoke of. ‘You have a good cry if you want to.’
‘No, I’ve finished with crying, Tom, for good. I was just giving in to a silly whim.’
She shook herself, like a dog who has been unwillingly immersed in water and smiled brightly. ‘In fact, I’ve made up my mind to get right away for a while. Close the hotel, we’ve had a hectic season, and have a few days holiday ourselves. What do you say?’
He gasped and his eyes shone with joyful anticipation. He had no idea what was in her mind, perhaps a honeymoon, but if he was to be included in it how could he refuse his expression said, then his face fell and he shook his head.
‘I can’t do it, Meg.’
‘Why not? Oh please, Tom, let’s go up to …’
‘I can’t, Meggie, honest …’
‘But why not, for God’s sake? I know the place is full but we can refuse any more bookings for a week and Edie and Albert will keep an eye on the place …’
Tom studied Meg with loving, troubled eyes but his heart was
heavy
for how was he to tell her? He was still the engaging young man who had grown from the cheerful youth and boy, his open, good-humoured face scarcely altered in ten years. The placid country life they had known for years had exactly suited his temperament. He was content in his life now the threat of Martin had been removed. He looked just what he was, a man of the soil, a plain working man in a working man’s garb, with a pleasant brown face beneath his cap of bright curls. His eyes were clear and steady in his love for her, blue and reliable as the summer sky. It was a patient face, boyish and yet maturing now, his own confidence, built up layer upon layer by Meg and the work she trusted him with, as enduring as the soil he worked. It was an unlined face for he had nothing with which he was troubled.
But now his eyes were anxious, careful almost for what he had to tell her was going to upset her further and he could not bear to see it in her. But it must be done. He was a man, an Englishman and it must be done.
‘What is it, Tom?’ She put out a hand to him in sudden fear and on her face was an expression which said she really did not think she could stand any more.
‘Meggie …’
‘What, for God’s sake … what?’
‘I don’t know how to tell you, you being so upset an’ all, but … well, we’ve all got to do what we think is right, our Meg …’
‘Please, Tom.’ She was beginning to understand what it was he was trying to tell her, he could see it in her tear wet eyes but it did not make it any easier. He had been so filled with pride, with national patriotism, and with the excitement not unlike the fervour of the football supporters with whom he had once mingled. He had queued for hours with them, right along the street and round the corner for the recruiting officer could scarcely cope with the thousands who, like himself, had come to offer themselves to their country, to their King and to the bright, golden chance to be heroes.
Megan began to moan helplessly.
‘Oh don’t Tom, please … don’t tell me …’
‘I’m sorry Meggie … really …’
‘Not you, Tom! I can’t stand it if you leave me as well …’
He did not notice what she had said after the first word or two. Though he was clearly upset by her grief, and if he were honest, a little gratified, it surely meant they would be married before he
set
off for France. There was a tilt to his head, a proud lift in his shoulders and the triumphant light of courage in his vivid blue eyes.
‘I had to, Meg. There was no other way.’ He said it simply. ‘The 19th battalion, the “Kings Liverpool Regiment”. The third Liverpool “Pals” we are. We’re all to stay together, all us “scousers” in a “Pals” battalion. It’ll be grand to serve with other chaps from Liverpool, in the same regiment … I’m sorry, Meg, really I am, but I’ve to report tomorrow for training I didn’t think it’d be so soon but Albert is a good chap and he can cope and I’ll be home soon on leave and …’ His face became hopeful, warm with his love and the expectation that she surely could not refuse him now, ‘… we can be married before I go, Meg, can’t we?’
Tom’s eyes shone with patriotic fervour and he almost stood to attention as though already he was on the parade ground beneath his country’s flag. ‘There are a few weeks training. We’ve to report to Knowsley … but … oh Meg, say yes, say we’ll be married before I go.’
‘Go where, Tom?’ It was as if she could not comprehend the enormity of what was happening. Her eyes were bewildered, like those of a lost child and for a moment Tom’s bright, excited mind knew doubt and confusion for she seemed racked with a strange emotion. She had been distraught, minutes before, made so, she said, by the dread of what was to happen to the men who had already gone to war. Or that was what her words had implied. ‘Selfish and uncaring’ were the words she had used, ‘crazy men who risked their lives for a dream’ but surely she must see that a man had no alternative but to fight for his country, his family, his woman, when the call came. She was upset by it all, justifiably so but she’d come round. They all would, all the women who would wait behind for their men.
‘Go where, Tom?’ she repeated dully.
‘To France, Meg. Where else, but I’ll be home by Christmas, you just wait and see.’
He had no idea what war would be like, imagining it to be a grand affair of great marches and even greater battles. He was not even really sure why he was to fight. He knew he was to defend his country in this ‘war to end wars’ as it was being called and that already a British force was in position, ready to fight, somewhere in France and his only anxiety was that it might all
be
over before he got there. He dearly wanted Meg to be proud of him.
A few days later he and other members of his company were drilling in the sultry heat of the sports stadium at Knowsley, near Liverpool and the following week they were entrained before dawn for Edinburgh where, under canvas, Tom Fraser and his ‘pals’ were to be turned into soldiers.
She was in the dining-room, chatting courteously to a guest when she heard the telephone ring in the reception area. She took little notice for it had scarcely stopped now for over four weeks, alive with those who wished to spend a few days in the peace of the Derbyshire countryside before going ‘over there’. Parents, moneyed naturally, who desired to share a day or two with a beloved son, young officers with their young wives and even, she suspected, those who were not, and the dining-room was filled with elegantly dressed ladies and immaculately suited gentleman and not a few uniforms that night.
‘Excuse me, Miss Hughes, it’s for you.’ The receptionist, a handsome young man who could have been taken for a guest was reluctant to interrupt the beautifully dressed woman who was his employer but the gentleman on the telephone had been most insistent.
Meg turned, and smiling a polite word of apology, excused herself from the worried mother and proud father of the young lieutenant who was to sail for France the next week.
‘Who is it, Andrew?’ she said. ‘Mr Fraser?’
‘It didn’t sound like him, Miss Hughes.’
Her mind was still filled with the anxious, tremulously smiling face of the young soldier’s mother, a face which said she knew she should be proud of her handsome, eighteen-year-old boy but really she would much rather he stayed at home in the nursery where he belonged and where he would be safe. All over the country, in cottages and mansions, in northern terraces and southern villas, women wore the same expression, not entirely convinced, as their menfolk were, that this was going to be the biggest adventure; that their husbands, city men, bus drivers, clerks, coal miners and teachers were to be off on the greatest ‘lark’ of their humdrum lives.
‘Meg.’ The voice at the other end of the line was soft, weary
almost
and she felt her heart turn over in her breast before it began to pump and beat vigorously, joyfully, lovingly.
‘Martin.’ She wanted to laugh and cry and shout across the wires of how much she loved him but she kept her voice cool.
‘Oh Meggie …’ It was said sadly, wryly, resignedly.
‘Yes Martin?’ She had begun to smile, her great golden eyes blazing across the reception counter into the startled gaze of a passing guest.
‘You win … you win, Meggie!’
‘I don’t know what you mean, Martin Hunter.’
‘Oh yes you damn well do! I can’t stand against you, my sweet. If you want to be a business woman, then be one. If you want to run a hotel, or any other bloody venture, then do so. Sweetheart, I can’t go on like this. I love you, Meggie. I should have known …’ She heard him sigh at the other end of the line, ‘My God, I should! Ever since you were five-years-old you have made up your own mind and stuck to it. I should have known you wouldn’t change now. I was a fool, Meg, the last time … oh my darling … marry me … marry me …’
‘Yes, Martin.’ Her eyes had begun to brim with tears but they were as bright and luminous as the diamonds on the wrists of her guests. Her face was suffused with a joyful, rosy glow and she lifted her head to smile enchantingly, enchanted, at the receptionist.