Between Friends (44 page)

‘Martin?’ Mrs Whitley’s voice was anxious and the other two looked at her curiously for she sounded so odd but Martin Hunter turned back to her, smiling now, then leaned to kiss her soft wrinkled cheek.

‘Cheerio Cook,’ he said, his voice and manner quite normal, his eyes smiling imperturbably and she wondered why she had been so suddenly wary for there was nothing there but his affection for herself.

The farmhouse, as Meg had always thought of it, had, it turned out, once been a coaching inn, it’s custom destroyed in the early years by the coming of the railway, and she had been delighted to find when she and Tom had been shown round by the agent who was acting on behalf of the owner, that the front room into which they stepped directly from the overgrown garden, was actually a snug bar-room with an enormous fireplace at one end and a counter at the other. The floor was flagged, covered by a layer of filth inches deep for the place had been empty for six years, and cobwebs were laid like lace from one end of the room to the other, drifting in a haze about her head and touching her face with soft insistence.

Behind the counter a door led to a cold room and then into a huge kitchen with an alcove at one end in which was placed a fire-grate and on either side of the grate were huge ovens. There were wooden seats built in beside them underneath which were
cupboards
. The beams overhead in each room were black and at least a foot thick and in the centre of the kitchen was a deal table so large it had evidently been abandoned as it could not be heaved through the doorway.

There were long, stone-flagged passages with tiny rooms off them and several larger ones, the biggest of which would serve admirably as a dining-room. A narrow stone spiral staircase, the steps of which were worn in the centre led to the upstairs landing. Again there were meandering passages off which led bedrooms, large and small, all dark and gloomy for the windows were mullioned and incredibly dirty.

Tom wandered behind her, opening cupboards and looking inside for signs of damp and rotten wood, well able to recognise it now with his new expertise learned from the carpenter at Silverdale. He ran his hands appraisingly across crumbling floorboards and flaking plaster, window sills and door frames, whistling to himself, absorbed, now he had made up his mind to it, in the consideration of how much it would take, in time and money, to get this old place fit for human habitation. It had been occupied by nothing but field mice and roosting birds in the chimney, and it was for that reason they had got it for such a low sum but would the restoring of it, in the long run, make it an expensive purchase? Meg had said not and that they could make a go of it and if hard work and determination were the factors needed to do it, then by God Tom Fraser agreed with her.

They stayed with a certain Mrs Annie Hardcastle in the village of Great Merrydown during those last weeks before the inn opened, supervising the work which was being done. She was glad to have them, she said, for she was a widow with one child, a son with a crippled leg four inches shorter than the sound one. Born like it, just after her Bert went in the South African wars, Annie Hardcastle said, wanting no sympathy, and no-one could tell her why, but she loved her Will for he was all she had and he loved her. He did odd jobs about the village, and they managed but she was always glad of a bit extra. She had a small house two doors down from the village store, convenient to the inn. She had taken in lodgers for thirty-six years now, ever since she had become a widow. Casual farm workers, migrants who came and went with the seasons, sleeping in her clean rooms and eating her plain nourishing food. She was pleased, though slightly mystified, to be paid the good money she received from the young couple who
had
been spilled, with their boxes, on to her doorstep from the shining motor car which, it turned out, though not driven by him, belonged to no less a personage than Mr Robert Hemingway. It was a name known even out here in Great Merrydown and though she was uncertain of their relationship to the great man she was not unduly concerned. Live and let live, was Annie Hardcastle’s motto, and besides, she took a great liking to Miss Hughes and Mr Fraser and wished them the best of luck in their undertaking. They had a lot of pluck, the two of them restoring that old tumbledown place on Merrydown Hill and by God they would need it.

They employed two men to help Mr Fraser with the repairing of the crumbling woodwork, replacing the tiles on the roof, replastering the walls and putting in new window frames. He was a real handyman and Zack Entwistle – one of the two men taken on and a distant relative of Annie’s, as were most of the folk hereabout – was fulsome in his praise and his awe at the amount of work the young ‘maister’ could get through.

‘We can’t keep up wi’ ’im, me an’ Albert,’ he remarked repeatedly to anyone who would listen and it was true, but Meg and Tom were determined that by the spring of next year they would be ready for their first ‘guests’ and before that exciting day there was much to be done. The walls were whitewashed until they gleamed and the floors scrubbed a dozen times until the beautiful red of the flags glowed softly in the sunlight which streamed through the sparkling windows.

‘Eeh, Miss Hughes, it looks a fair treat,’ Annie breathed for really who could have believed that such a transformation could take place. Megan Hughes was a girl after Annie’s own heart and if there was anything else she could do to help her, she said, she had only to say the word.

‘Just call me Meg, please,’ she was told, and she did and with Edie Marshall, another relative of hers from over Lower Hargrave way and always glad to earn a bob or two, the three of them had made a right good job of it and if she said it herself you could eat your dinner off them floors!

Meg had been down to Northwich, and on a cold but sunny day at the beginning of November, a dray the size of a small house drew up the steep hill between the double row of sturdy, stone built cottages, past the staring women and children and dogs, to the top of Great Merrydown village street. Annie Hardcastle
was
there with Edie on that day, putting the finishing touches to the tiny bedroom which Mr Fraser – call me Tom, for God’s sake – had finished painting only that morning. He had papered the walls with the loveliest wallpaper, all pink rosebuds and tender green leaves on white. The curtains were a thick white muslin, lined in pink cotton and Annie Hardcastle would have been happy to settle in it herself, it was so pretty. It was to be Meg’s room, Tom had said fondly, for she had never had anything really nice of her own in her life and it was time she did!

The horses which pulled the dray were breathing heavily when they arrived at the top of Merrydown Hill. They stopped outside the inn gladly, ‘whoa-ed’ to a lumbering halt by the carter who enquired cheerfully if they wanted a hand with this lot? ‘This lot’ proved to be strong oak furniture, settles, beds, tables, chairs, a dresser and all in need of a good dusting and waxing with Annie’s special polish, but built to last and as good stuff as Annie had ever seen. There were boxes filled to overflowing with copper pots and pans and crockery, bedding rugs and even a picture or two, and she heard Edie whisper to Zack who seemed to have become more or less a permanent fixture about the place even though the work was all done, that there must be a bit of ‘brass’ to pay for all this lot!

‘Will you stay and help, Mrs Hardcastle? I would be so relieved if you could. I am hoping to have my first visitors by Easter and there is still so much to be done, and Zack …’ Meg Hughes turned her brilliant tawny smile on the old man who blinked like a dazzled schoolboy and snatched his cap from his head, ‘… perhaps if you have no other commitments in the future you could make a start on the garden with Tom. It is somewhat overgrown …’ She smiled at the understatement for indeed the garden was like a wilderness and would need a great deal of work to bring it to the situation Megan Hughes envisaged. ‘I intend to do cream teas when the weather permits and of course a gentleman may bring his beer outside from the bar if he has a mind to. Perhaps a bench or two, what d’you think, so that those who wish may sit in the sunshine. The garden has a pleasant outlook.’

The old man hardly gave her time to finish speaking before he had picked up his spade and had begun to attack the weeds as though the first customer was to arrive that very afternoon.

Edie moved restlessly. What about her, her manner seemed to say but Meg had not forgotten her. She was a good worker and
would
be useful when they were busy, as Meg fully expected to be. She could get on without supervision which was a great asset when the director of this tiny empire needed to be in two dozen places at the same time! There were ten bedrooms to be cleaned each day when the first guests arrived, and a kitchen the size of a football pitch besides the other downstairs rooms, and she herself would be busy with the cooking, the baking, the managing and accounting of every penny made and spent, the planning and running of the venture and would have little time for anything else.

‘I was wondering, Edie … I was wondering if you would consider working full time? This is a big place and I will need someone who can be trusted to keep it as I like it.’

Edie preened and her face was rosy with pleasure and Annie Hardcastle, shrewd with the native wit of the Northcountry woman and a good judge of character was aware that this girl – for she was really no more – would go far. She knew how to treat people, to give them a feeling of self-worth. She had a way with them which brought out their best. She was a hard taskmaster but she was fair and when a job was well done she told you so! But she had a control which was strange in one so young as though something in her past had given her the need for self-discipline. She was often sharp-tongued and her eyes were keen in the search for any infringement of her rules, and if she was quick to praise she was also quick to remonstrate for her standards were high.

And look what she had done with this place! A couple of months ago it had been no more than a ramshackle dilapidated old building, almost a shell really, ready to fall in on itself with age and disuse, but she had seen its potential, found a ‘backer’, as she put it to Annie Hardcastle, though Annie was not entirely certain what that meant, got on her knees with a bucket and scrubbing brush, an occupation she was well used to, she cheerfully said and turned the place into a little palace. The paintwork was white and shining against the rosy bricks, the windows winking in the sunshine, pretty chintz curtains, clean and fresh fluttering at each one and the spotless rooms waiting only for the furniture to be moved in.

They were alone on that last night before Meg and Tom were to move in. Tom had gone up to the inn to check on something or other and they sat, the two women over a companionable cup of tea before clearing the table of the remains of their supper.

‘I’d like to wish you good luck, Meg but I know luck has nothing to do with it. Bloody hard work – and that’s swearing – guts and determination, are what you’ve put in that place, you and Tom, but there’s just one thing you seem to have overlooked, lass.’

Meg sat down again slowly and her face took on a certain hauteur.

‘Oh, and what’s that?’

‘Don’t put on that hoity-toity look with me, miss, for I’m old enough to be your grandmother … well, nearly …’ She smiled grimly.

Meg smiled too, and reached for Annie Hardcastle’s hand though she was well aware that Annie would not care for it. Not one to put much credence on great demonstrations of affection, except perhaps with her handicapped lad, Annie shook it off irritably and began to shuffle the supper dishes about in a haphazard way and Meg knew something serious was troubling her.

‘What is it, Mrs Hardcastle? What have I done wrong?’

‘Nowt yet, leastways, I don’t think so.’

‘Well, what is it?’

‘It’s … well … have you thought what folks are going to make of you and that lad up there all alone?’

‘Pardon.’

‘You heard me, Meg Hughes.’

‘I know I did but I’m not sure I understood you.’

‘Come off it, lass! You’re a young and bonny lass. He’s a young and bonny lad and you’re not related! Neither are you wed. What d’you think folk are going to say to you living up there all alone …’

‘We’re not alone. Edie is going to live in. She says it’s too far each day from Lower Hargrave so …’

‘It won’t do. She’s nowt but a servant!’

‘Now look here, Mrs Hardcastle …’

‘No, you look here, young lady. I’ve lived here all me life and I know these people, high station and low, and there’s not one will give their custom to your establishment when it becomes known that the owners are living over the brush!’

‘Over the …! Mrs Hardcastle …!’

‘It’s true, Meg. I know we are in the twentieth century now and that times are changing but there’s some things never change and sin is one of them.’

‘
Sin
!

‘Oh lass, I know there’s nowt going on and so does Edie and Zack but the rest of them don’t and they’ll not come. The parson won’t like it and he’ll have summat to say, not outright but you can be sure he’ll make his feelings quite clear. Now, you’ll do well up there, you and Tom, but there’s something that’s got to be faced. Either you and Tom get wed or he must sleep elsewhere!’

Tom didn’t like it, not one bit and said so forcefully each night when he set off down the hill to his lodgings with Annie.

‘This is bloody ridiculous! Paying out good money for a room when there are a dozen here all empty and it’s damned cold setting off on a winter’s night to walk a bloody mile …’