They were married by special licence two days later, and on the same day Corporal Tom Fraser took the train to Edinburgh leaving his lovely wife to drive their motor car back to their hotel from the registry office in Buxton. There were a dozen or so young couples at the railway station, embracing unashamedly, soldiers with wives and sweethearts, boys some of them with their mothers, trying to be brave and there were more than a few curious glances cast on the strangeness of the elegantly dressed young woman who stood so quietly beside the tall soldier. They did not touch, nor even speak though it was seen she wore a wedding ring and whose could it be but his?
The train was stuffed to the luggage racks with soldiers, volunteers dying to get ‘over there’, anticipating a brisk, spectacular and triumphant campaign, worrying that it might be over before they got to it.
At the last moment, as he climbed into a compartment, Meg put out her hand to him for how could they part like this? The last two days and what had happened this morning were like some dream which, when she woke up would slip away and be forgotten, but this moment was real, Tom’s drawn face was real, these soldiers, boys no more, most of them, were real and they were off to something no-one knew anything about and it frightened her. Martin had gone like this, she supposed, and was never to come back, and might not Tom do the same. Dear God … to lose both
of
them! Both her dear childhood companions. She had lost her lover and now, perhaps the only real friend she had in the world.
‘Tom … take care … please …’
She put her bare hand on his where it rested on the frame of the open window but he withdrew it hastily, turning away to find a place for his things.
‘Tom …’
‘Goodbye, Meg.’
‘Tom … oh Tom, will you write?’
‘Write?’ His face spasmed in pain.
‘Please …’ Her voice was no more than a whisper. The train began to move and at the last moment those about her could see that the strange and beautiful woman was weeping just as despairingly as they.
The official letter came six months later.
Sir/Madame, [The ‘Sir’ had been crossed out.]
It is my painful duty to inform you that no further news having been received relative to:
(RANK) Lieutenant
(NAME) Martin Hunter
(REGIMENT) Royal Flying Corps
who has been missing since 10.11.14, the Army Council have been regretfully constrained to conclude that he is dead and that his death took place on 10.11.14.
I am to express to you the sympathy of the Army Council with you in your loss.
There were other remarks regarding Lieutenant Hunter’s personal effects and a note explaining that as she was the sole beneficiary under the terms of Lieutenant Hunter’s will, though they were not related, she had been officially recognised as his next of kin and would therefore be informed when these would be released to her.
It was addressed to Miss M. Hughes but Mrs Tom Fraser opened it and wept, for in her arms she held the two-day-old daughter of Lieutenant Martin Hunter.
FRED HAD SMILED
at first when she told him she wanted to learn to fly.
‘Mrs Fraser, really! What on earth do you want to do that for? There’s no need for it. Angus can do all the testing that’s called for and besides, it’s not fitting for a lady to fly!’
‘Not fitting! What on earth does that mean, Fred?’ She smiled and shook her head and her bright crop of curls stood up about it in a positive halo, Fred thought, or a glowing, flame-coloured dandelion clock, the kind he had blown on as a child. She had had it cut several months ago, to his secret dismay, for really her hair was so beautiful, her crowning glory as they used to say, but she had sworn she was far too busy now, with an hotel, an aircraft industry and the automobile factory to run, and could not spend half her day fiddling about with pins and combs. But then so many young women of the day were having their hair ‘bobbed’ as it was called, for convenience and for safety’s sake since the machinery which many of them worked could be dangerous, and he supposed it was only sensible but he did wish Mrs Fraser had not thought it necessary to do the same. Not that he voiced an opinion, one way or the other for it was nothing to do with him what his employer did and he agreed with her that the demands placed upon her by Martin Hunter’s death were heavy, and in his private opinion, more than most women could have borne, but still … it was a pity.
He recalled distinctly the emotions she had induced in him on that first day she had come to the airfield after Mr Hunter’s death. She had worn dove-grey, a fine woollen coat, long with a full back, belted and with big pockets. It had a draped, cross-over front and a deep collar but though it was roomy it could not hide the swelling curve of her pregnancy. They had heard, of course, that she had married recently, only a few weeks before Christmas and here she was on the second day of January very evidently more than a month gone with child. But it was not Fred Knowsley’s
concern
and in these days of relaxed morality and the high fever of excitement which the war brought about in the young, it no longer surprised him. At least she
was
married!
She had been over before, of course, talking airily of ‘carrying on’ whilst Mr Hunter was in France and being quite certain that if they all pulled together and continued with what Mr Hunter had begun, knowing absolutely
nothing
of what that might be, they could keep it all intact for him until he came home and if Mr Knowsley would let her have the books she would do the monthly accounts. She had even promised to have a word with the Ministry chaps about a war contract when they came to inspect the factory, all glowing with enthusiasm and some inner beauty which, really, had been a treat to see.
A few weeks later Martin Hunter had been posted missing, believed killed and they had not seen her again until the New Year. She had moved that day through the hangar, the light of her blown out, turning every head as she walked with quiet dignity, a composure which seemed to speak of great pain held rigidly under control. They watched her respectfully, all of them, their heads bowed slightly, their gaze ready to dart away should it meet hers, for they knew by then that Martin Hunter had left everything he had to this woman.
‘Mr Knowsley,’ she said and held out her hand and he took it gently for it was all there for him to read in her eyes what she had been to Martin Hunter, ‘or may I still call you Fred?’ she added and for a moment her face was lit by the memory of the smile she once had.
‘Please … I would be honoured, Miss Hughes … oh, I do beg your pardon.’
‘That’s alright, it is Mrs Fraser now, Fred.’
‘Of course,’ and he managed to keep his kindly grey eyes from dropping to her waist.
‘I was wondering if we might talk, Fred. There is much to be discussed and I shall not be able to get over for much longer …’
He was mortified. ‘Mrs Fraser, why did you not telephone? I could have come up to the hotel. You should not be on your feet, indeed you should not … Please, ma’am …’ He was a bachelor and unused to such situations and surely she should not be here, under the gaze of these fascinated men who remembered her previous visits, but she was looking about her, still holding his hand.
‘I wanted to … to have a look, see again what he had done, Fred. You understand?’ And indeed he did, instantly, for though he had not married Fred Knowsley had known love, once, and recognised it in this young woman’s face, but his own showed only concern and respect.
‘Is there somewhere we can talk,’ she went on but her eyes had strayed to the office where once, he remembered, she had gone with Martin Hunter, and they became quite haunted and hurriedly, for he could not bear that these staring men should see it, he began to draw her away.
‘Come into my office, Mrs Fraser,’ he said, ‘and I’ll send one of the lads for tea. We can talk there,’ and she had gone, thankfully, not yet ready to face those two enchanted ghosts.
‘Fred …’ she said as he put her carefully into his own chair.
‘Yes Mrs Fraser?’
‘I have come to apologise for my behaviour when last I was here …’
‘Mrs Fraser, I cannot think what you mean.’
‘Oh yes. I acted as though I had merely to come in and look around, study the books for an hour and the whole business would run just as it had always done. I was quite insufferable, Fred and I’m sorry. You and … and Martin were trained … worked hard to come by the knowledge and experience which made you successful and it was presumptuous of me to think I … well … I had a damned cheek … you will know what I am trying to say. I know nothing about Martin’s concern, beyond what he told me, but I must learn and I am here to ask if you will teach me?’
‘Mrs Fraser, I would gladly do anything in my power, anything at all to keep Mr Hunter’s business alive but I cannot think …’
‘Oh I know, I am a woman and how can a woman do the work of a man, but Fred, I do not mean you to make me into an engineer! I could never be that but then there is no need for I have one in you. You are the engineer and if you will accept the post will become
chief
engineer, for I intend to employ another, and I wish also to offer you the position of manager. No, I do not want thanks. What I want is to know
how
the business works. How the aircraft and the automobiles are found a buyer. What they cost to build and what we can get when we sell what we have made. The technical side of it will be your concern but the business and financial side will be my responsibility. I have a good business head, Fred and can understand many things in the world
of
commerce that many men cannot but I must know the pounds shillings and pence of the concern, the accounting and costing system, the management of the employees. We can find a designer, a draughtsman, whatever is needed. If there are buyers to be had, customers, then I will find them … well, when I am … soon, but until then I want you to let me come here and stand beside you, explain to me whilst I am still able … to drive my motor and get up here, what makes this factory tick. I want to meet the manager of the motor car factory and he and I will discuss what we are to do with it for no-one, for a while, is going to buy a motor car and so we must find something else to keep the factory running. What can we manufacture
instead
of the motor car? There is so much to learn, Fred and with your help I will learn it. I
can
do it, but I cannot do it alone. Will you help me, Fred?’
‘Mrs Fraser, I can understand your enthusiasm but I really don’t think I can …’
‘
I must do it
, Fred!’
‘But you are …’
‘I know …’ She smiled and Fred was confounded when she placed her hand quite naturally on her swollen stomach, looking down at it with all the love in the world in her eyes, ‘… but I shall have my child in April and there is someone who will look after it whilst I am here so … will you help me, Fred … please.’ Her eyes swam with sudden tears and he felt his throat swell. ‘Fred, please say you will help me keep Martin Hunter’s dream alive. You see, while
it
lives, so does he!’
As Megan Fraser had predicted, the war effectively brought to a halt the building of the Hunter family motor car but in June she went alone to London and within a week was back at Watkins Field with a government contract in her hand. Her face was rosy and her eyes shone with excitement.
‘Well done, Mrs Fraser,’ they said, but she laughed and her eyebrows tilted wryly.
‘Nay, they were giving them out like sweeties, Fred. Anyone who has a work bench and can turn a lathe or even knock nails in a piece of wood is a Godsend to them for they need men like us to build their machines for them!’
‘But what sort of machines, Mrs Fraser,’ John Reading asked, for he was the manager at ‘Hunter Automobiles’ and for the last five months had been watching the steady decline of the factory
he
ran. Many of the men who had been employed there had gone off to France, like the rest of the country’s youth and though there had been a couple of orders for a Hunter family motor car, a residue of those taken before the onset of hostilities, they had been the last and now, what could he do but shut the place down, with Mrs Fraser’s consent, naturally, and find himself a position elsewhere.
‘Motor bikes, Mr Reading!’ She was quite glorious in her triumph.
‘Motor bikes?’
‘Yes, motor bikes. It seems they are used extensively in France. Couriers, I suppose and some with side cars to ferry about the men who run the war. Oh, I know it seems a step backwards after building a motor car but …’ She held her breath, like a child about to divulge a secret and Mr Reading could understand quite readily how she had won the government contract she had on the desk before her, despite her assurance that it had been easy. He leaned forward and so did Fred Knowsley though by now Fred had become used to Mrs Fraser’s wild and resolute determination to succeed in this.
‘… if we are on time with the delivery and the machines are to their satisfaction, a certain gentleman has promised he can guarantee for us other contracts. Vehicles, lorries, staff cars! The war is voracious, gentlemen, needing not just men, but machines, and sadly, another of those is the ambulance. They are badly needed for it seems they are often … damaged.’ The pictures her words conjured up were too much for her and for several seconds she bent her head, then, ‘… but if they are to be built, we shall build them and to the best of our abilities!’