Between Friends (16 page)

He smiled at his own foolishness and stood back until he could see his reflection in the magnificent, polished surface of the bonnet. She
was
a beauty and it was not just skin deep either. Beneath the bonnet was a superb engine, the best in the world he reckoned, flexible and smooth running, making the motor car easy to handle. The steering and clutch were light and the great speeds she could reach were attained with none of the vibration which was an affliction suffered by many of today’s vehicles. It was almost completely silent when it ran and Mr Robert and himself were unanimous in their belief that she was really quite the most noble of man’s creations!

He turned away, still smiling for though he loved the splendid motor car dearly, as one would love a child of his own body, the one which held his complete devotion, the one which would surely have been his secret favourite should he have
had
children, was not standing in
this
yard!

As though some image had created itself in his mind his expression altered to one of almost besotted adoration and of it’s own volition his gaze turned towards a building on the other side of the cobbled yard. His eyes narrowed and a warm dreaming shone there and without thought his booted feet turned him away from the vehicle he had just polished and he began to saunter in the direction of the closed door. He’d just take a peep, he told himself, that was all. Just make sure she was covered up and well protected against the frost which still might come down at night.

There was no-one about. Andrew had gone off to the stable yard to see to his beloved horses. Martin found it hard to understand how anyone could prefer a dumb animal and the slow carriage it pulled to a real, live motor car but then Andrew was of another generation and set in his ways and he was used to horses. He had been employed by Mr Hemingway for many years and still drove and cared for Mrs Hemingway’s carriage horses. Motor cars were new and for the young, like himself, or the young at heart, like Mr Hemingway!

Now there was a man Martin could admire. Seventy if he was a day and he loved motor cars and this, the ‘Silver Ghost’ Rolls-Royce, with the same passion as Martin,
and
the splendid machine they had been working on for months now and which drew Martin to it like a cat to a saucer of cream! Mr Charles Hemingway
was
not such an enthusiast as was his father, being more concerned with the prestige the beautiful machines brought his family, the éclat and glory in motoring circles the vehicles might give him, rather than a love for the actual automobiles themselves.

His step was light and joyful and before he knew it he was across the yard and had the door to the old tack room opened. He stood for several minutes, just looking, just standing and breathing in the smell of oil and leather, drugged by the deep sense of belonging to, of being possessed by what was there. The sheeted shape was long and low but he made no move to uncover it, no move to draw nearer to whatever it was there that held him in it’s spell. The sun fell about him, casting his shadow across the sheet and he felt the thrill go through him as though in anticipation of what was beneath it and the meaning it would have in his life.

Turning slowly away he closed the door and as he did so his mind slipped back to the day he had, for the first time, sat behind the wheel of Mr Charles’ old Vauxhall. He had thought he would faint right away, like a young maiden at her first dance. His heart had thudded in his throat and he could not answer Andrew’s curt questions nor explain to the ex-groom that he had no need to show him what to do. He had been born with the knowledge! Andrew had been quite short with him as Martin drove them steadily down the drive turning into Aigburth Road with the panache of a Louis Chevrolet, the famous driver of the Buick racer, saying he had been told that the new ‘lad’ had never driven a motor car before and he’d be obliged if his time was not wasted again!

He smiled at the memory, then, after returning the Rolls Royce to its splendid garage, made over from what had been stables, he began to walk in the direction of the house. The kitchen door opened on a familiar scene of intense activity as Martin entered. Mrs Glynn, the cook, fluttered frantically about her oven, lifting the lids of each pan which simmered there, her manner that of someone convinced nothing would be right if she herself did not personally see to it. Two kitchen maids hovered at her elbow, acolytes attending the high priestess and she threw sharp commands at them over her shoulder which they scurried to obey.

A saddle of lamb was lifted from the oven and Martin’s mouth watered as the lovely smell tantalised his nose. One of the maids basted it, pouring the sizzling fat in which the juices of the meat mingled, over the nicely browning joint. Another chopped mint
leaves
, sprinkling them with sugar ready for the sauce and a third tossed a green salad in which were radish, cucumber and tomatoes, all grown under glass during the winter at the far side of the vegetable garden.

‘See! You, Lizzie, stop gawping and get on with them egg whites. They’ve to be frothy, girl, frothy I said, standing up in peaks when you lift the fork! Not like that! The pulp of the apples is to be mixed in it and it’ll look a right mess in that runny stuff you’re about! Elbow grease, my girl, ever heard of it? Now get on with it at once. Mr Charles is right partial to my ‘apple snow’ and I’ll not serve that concoction you’re fiddling with. See, give it me!’

The girl was elbowed aside and the irritated monologue continued, interrupted by frequent asides to this or that maid on the preparation of some dish which was to appear on the luncheon table of the Hemingway family. Martin grinned for she reminded him of Mrs Whitley, all bark and no bite and he wondered if all those in charge of a kitchen were the same. It made him feel quite homesick as he listened to Mrs Glynn bullying the girls around her and the faces of those he had left in Great George Square spun for moment in his mind, then he shook off the feeling for it did no good to look back! He peered round the kitchen to see if either Ferguson or Mrs Stewart, the housekeeper was about and when he saw they were missing he sidled up to the cook and as once he had with Mrs Whitley grinned endearingly.

‘Any chance of a cuppa, Mrs Glynn? I’ve been out in that cold yard since cock-crow and I’m frozen to the marrow. Feel my hands. See, they’re like ice!’

He cupped her flushed cheeks between his strong brown fingers smiling down with his deliberately seductive eyes into her harassed face, his head on one side and the cook’s distracted expression gave way to one of indulgence for like Mrs Whitley before her she could not resist him and despite her high state of tension she smiled.

‘Oh give over, Martin. Can’t you see I’m run off me feet here. I’ve no time to be making pots of tea for the likes of you. It’s nearly one o’clock and the mint sauce not even done …’

She gave him a nudge with her elbow and he pretended to wince, staggering about in a charade of agony, rolling his eyes towards the roomful of young maid servants who all stopped whatever they were doing to watch and giggle.

‘Dammit Mrs Glynn, you should have gone in the wrestling ring. With a move like that you’d have been champion in no time. I think you’ve broken my ribs!’ He clapped his hands to his chest and sat down in Cook’s own special chair before the fire. ‘Oh dear, oh dear, there’s only one thing to be done. A cup of tea’s the only thing …’

‘Oh for God’s sake, give him a cup, Jess, before he has us all in tears …’ but Mrs Glynn was laughing as loud as the rest. There was no doubt about it he was a charmer, this lad, with a grin on him that’d melt the stoniest heart. He could wind all the girls round his little finger with those eyes of his and she’d have to watch him for there was not one of them’d say ‘no’ if they were to be asked.

And his wit could fetch a smile even to the sour face of Mrs Stewart! Not Mr Ferguson, mind but then he was a chap and could see nothing special in Hunter, Mr Hemingway’s protegée, and if he was to come in now the lad would be out quicker than a wink. But he had something the girls liked, that was for sure.

The bustle and tumult progressed about Martin, each servant busy with his or her allotted task. There seemed to be a never ending whirl of activities to be accomplished and he often wondered at the hurly burly as he remembered how Meg and Mrs Whitley between them had completely catered for the appetites of over a hundred hungry men and women and children at a time. Here there were four if the children, Mr Robert’s grandchildren, were not included! Four adults and there must be twenty-four indoor servants to see to their needs! Housekeeper, butler, cook, footmen, kitchen maids, parlour, upper and under house maids, chamber maids, ladies maid, valet, laundry, dairy and nursery maid and all to attend to four adults and three children!

And that did not account for the outside servants! Gardeners, coachmen, grooms, stableboys, and back at Great George Square there was only Tom!

He leaned back comfortably in Mrs Glynn’s chair and lifted his booted feet to the fender, stretching his legs as he drank his tea. The young maids eddied about him, their full white aprons brushing against his legs as they leaned to this or that in the cupboards on either side of the fireplace.

‘Excuse me Martin …’

‘Sorry Martin, can I just get the …’

He smiled, not displeased by the attention he was receiving and
was
gazing up into the fire-glowed cheeks and bright, knowing blue eyes of the under parlour maid who had no rights to be there anyway, contemplating the possibility of snatching a moment or two with her later, when Mrs Glynn’s ferocious hissing brought him to his feet. He had only time to hide the cup, straighten his jacket and smooth his vigorous hair when Ferguson was upon him. The little maid had melted away somewhere for which Martin fervently thanked the Good Lord.

‘Aah Hunter, there you are,’ Ferguson said coolly, his eyes studying Martin with an intensity which told of his yearning to find some fault,
any
fault, even if it was only a crooked tie, for it vexed the butler that he had no control over this young whippersnapper who had been brought into the household by his master. The trouble was he had no specific place here. He was neither servant nor guest. His work was under no-one’s control and he was answerable to no-one but Mr Hemingway. It irked Ferguson for he would dearly have loved to put him in his place, if only one could be found for him!

‘The master wants to see you immediately.’ His voice came out from somewhere at the back of his neck and his mouth sneered in a most peculiar way when he spoke. Martin made a mental note to tell them of it at home. It would make them laugh when he impersonated Ferguson’s ‘posh’ voice.

‘Get on then,’ the butler continued irritably, ‘and go straight to the drawing room. No loitering about.’

Clenching his jaw ominously, offended by the implication that he would dawdle about, ‘spying’ on the activities of those beyond the kitchen door, Martin ran swiftly up the steps which led to the splendour of the hall which he had first seen over a year ago.

He knocked on the drawing room door and a cheerful voice told him to come in. He would never forget that moment, never. He could remember his own hand, brown and no matter how he scrubbed it, ingrained with the oil and grease with which he was constantly in contact, reaching for the door handle, turning it and the door opening inwards.

Mr Hemingway was there. Mr Robert, called that even now to distinguish him from his son who was Mr Charles, and Mr Charles himself, standing, men-like, shoulder to shoulder with their coat-tails to the blazing fire.

He was conscious of his own careful feet across the remembered expanse of carpet and the elephant’s foot which seemed to spring
from
nowhere to trip him. There were ladies seated on the rosewood sofa. They were drinking from delicate crystal glasses and he distinctly recalled hearing Mr Charles asking his wife, young Mrs Hemingway she was, though she was a lady well past forty, if she would care for another sherry.

Mr Robert’s wife smiled at him as he moved towards her, her face placidly kind.

‘Well Hunter,’ she said vaguely.

Mr Robert turned as his wife spoke and his air of excitement communicated itself to Martin and even before the twinkling eyes had told him that this was no ordinary gathering, he knew that some moment had arrived that was to be crucial to his future. For the past six months they had been preparing on the specially built track Mr Robert had had constructed at the edge of the estate, preparing not just himself, but the machine which stood in glory in the tack room off the stable yard and now, surely,
now
…!

Mr Robert studied him and for a second they were alone together in their shared love of what they were about to do, then …

‘Well, Hunter?’

‘Yes, sir?’

‘Are you ready?’

‘Oh yes sir!’
I’ve been ready since the day I was born
!

‘Good boy! Our passage is booked and we are to sail on the
Alexandrina
in a fortnight’s time. It’s the fourth annual race on Ormond-Daytona Beach.’

‘Yes sir.’ His voice was reverential.

‘There will be some good racing men there, Hunter. The best, but in these last months you have shown yourself to be a natural driver and a keen competitor, the two most essential aptitudes needed in motor racing. So … we’re going to give it a try.’ He grinned delightedly and his face was like that of a child who is to be given a treat the likes of which he can scarcely believe. ‘What d’you say, lad? D’you think America is ready for us?’