Between Friends (63 page)

‘Can you swear to it?’

‘I saw his van meself.’

She telephoned Mr Talbot who was most bewildered, swearing he had delivered no veal to Miss Hughes for at least a fortnight, and what one of his vans was doing up her way yesterday he
could
not imagine, and he would certainly get to the bottom of it and if one of his men was up to no good …

Her face was as colourless and damp as the dough Jenny was kneading and the room and its occupants held their breath in dreadful anticipation for surely she was about to impart something of a quite appalling nature but all she said was, ‘Burn that veal, Edie, and I shall personally check every particle of food, and where it came from in future. Do you understand?’

Edie didn’t but she did as she was told without question for there were some strange things in her employer’s past and they had nothing to do with her, so she shut up Jenny’s excited curiosity with a sharp word and told her to mind her own business, which she herself intended to do!

Megan Hughes huddled in her bed that night, listening in her head to his dreadful laughter and thought she would never get warm again.

THE FIRST AIRCRAFT
to fly over the English Channel in support of the British Army in the field took off from Swingate Downs, near Dover on 13th August 1914. The first British reconnaissance flight over German territory was carried out by a lieutenant and a captain of number four squadron, the Royal Flying Corps, on 19th August 1914 and the first aircraft to be brought down in action was one belonging to number five squadron the Royal Flying Corps, on 22nd August 1914. The aircraft was shot down by rifle fire from troops in Belgium. The first Royal Flying Corps air victory took place on 25th August 1914, when two unarmed aircraft of number two squadron forced a German two seater to land.

On 10th November, two months after he arrived at St Omer, France, Lieutenant Martin Hunter took off in his own aircraft, the ‘Wren’ to fly over enemy lines. With him was another young airman, in a Blériot monoplane. Their orders were to reconnoitre the enemy’s territory and to report back to their Company Commander what they had seen.

The war was young. There was still enthusiasm and a certain feeling that they were boys, playing boy’s games, heightened by the fact that they slept in barns, used aircraft as windbreaks, ate in a tent – the mess – all giving the impression that they were almost on holiday and camping. The patrol went out at certain times of the day, depending on orders from wing headquarters and on this particular day the two airmen had been selected for the dawn patrol.

‘Good Luck,’ they wished one another, shaking hands enthusiastically, two handsome young men in the prime of their manhood, excited, warriors off to war, afraid for they were not fools, but nevertheless willing to go for they were both lovers of the frail aircraft they flew, and firm believers in their contribution in the war they were fighting. There were those who scoffed, asking what possible use these flimsy war birds could have in the destroying of
the
enemy and so far no-one could answer but at least they could
observe
, it was said.

The two young men were equipped with maps and instruments and told to pin-point the enemy’s trenches to a depth of three miles inside their lines, to keep their eyes open for troop movements and anything they thought might be useful, for truthfully, this new war, being only three months old, those in charge were not awfully certain on how to go about it.

The Blériot monoplane was sighted an hour later and those on the ground who watched it land were surprised at the shakiness of it for the man who flew it, though he had been out here only a matter of days, was an experienced pilot who had flown for at least a year back in England.

When the first mechanic reached him, for he made no attempt to leave his aircraft, the young pilot was weeping quite openly, the tears collecting inside his goggles. When he was coaxed to remove them he rubbed his eyes like a child and the oil which covered his face streaked and ran and he looked no more than fifteen.

‘Sir?’ the mechanic said, at a loss what to do next for his officer seemed close to hysteria. ‘Sir, why don’t you … why don’t you get down, sir?’ He was embarrassed but filled with a strange pity for the young man was distraught.

They got him to the ‘mess’ and gave him a brandy and his teeth chattered on the glass. The commanding officer was patient for the young pilot was no more than a boy really, straight from his public school, the son of a quite famous father, privileged and, knowing how to fly, one of the first to volunteer for the relatively new Royal Flying Corps.

‘He went down!’ he was able to say at last. ‘We were flying at 500 feet …’

‘Were there guns, Lieutenant?’

‘Guns, sir?’

‘Firing … shelling?’

‘No sir.’

‘Perhaps other aircraft?’

‘Aircraft, sir?’ The boy was deep in shock.

‘Enemy aircraft, boy?’

‘No sir, nothing.’

‘Then what happened? Why …?’

‘I don’t know, sir.’ The boy began to weep again for it was his
first
encounter with tragedy. ‘He seemed to … to spin, sir. Round and round and then he went into a steep dive. I was shouting to him, sir …’ The young officer sounded aggrieved as though if only Lieutenant Hunter had listened to him they would not now be in this predicament. ‘But he … he couldn’t hear me. The noise was so dreadful … I’ve never heard …’

‘No, boy … not many of us have …’

‘Such a dreadful sound, sir … and then … Oh dear God … oh sir … he hit the ground and skidded across the field …’ The boy sobbed uncontrollably and those about him moved restlessly for his anguish was hard to bear. They were all young, inexperienced in the art of the air battles in which they would be asked to take part, and the fine fun of it had suddenly become the grief and shock of their comrade. They had heard of the aircraft which had already been brought down, but they had been from other squadrons and though they had been concerned, of course, it had not touched them personally.

‘Go on, my boy, what happened then?’ The commanding officer’s voice was gentle.

‘Sir, oh sir …’ He might still have been at school, a boy addressing his headmaster. ‘It simply … exploded, sir.’ His voice rose and the officer gripped him by the arms quite forcefully. He must control himself now, his expression said, or he would be of no use to them, to himself or to the man with whom he would fly in future.

‘It burst into flames, sir … flames … Dear God, and the flames were … Oh Jesus.’

‘And Lieutenant Hunter, boy, did you see him leave the crash?’ The officer’s voice was urgent.

‘No sir … oh no sir … he was still in it, sir, he was still in it, sir … burning.’ The boy clawed at his own face, quite unable to bear the pictures his mind conjured up.

‘You did not see him … after the crash.’

‘No … I’ve just told you … it was burning.’

‘You flew over it … flew low enough to … to see Lieutenant Hunter?’

‘I went down, sir …’ The young officer had begun to calm himself, though his tears still flowed unchecked across his smooth, boyish cheeks and his eyes stared at the horror he had seen but he was falling into the level of shock which allowed him to endure it. ‘I went right down sir … to have … a look.’

‘Good lad, that was brave.’

‘… but … but it was burning … against the hedge. There were men … soldiers, German I think … it was confusing …’

‘Of course …’

‘… and I could see nothing except … except flames and smoke … but no-one left the aircraft, sir … no-one, no-one.’

The commanding officer stood up painfully. It was the first casualty of his squadron. The first man and craft to go down and it was hard to bear. There would be others, for like the two who had gone out so joyously this morning, and on other mornings, he was perfectly certain that this war would be fought not only on the ground and on the seas, but in the air.

He turned to the mechanic who hovered respectfully at his elbow, the very man, arrived only the day before, who had serviced Lieutenant Hunter’s machine before he took off.

‘See to him, will you … er …’

‘Johnson, sir.’

‘Look after him, Johnson and don’t leave him alone until I get back. If he doesn’t come out of it we shall have to get the MO, to have a look at him.’

‘Leave it to me, sir. I’ll keep an eye on him.’

They found the young officer an hour later wandering about the perimeter of the flying field apparently looking for ‘Nanny, who would be cross if she saw his dirty face.’

Of the mechanic who had been ordered to keep an eye on him there was no sign and when the commanding officer, suspicious, made enquiries at headquarters of him, it was discovered that the man simply did not exist!

The letter came at the end of November. It was a private letter addressed to Miss M. Hughes, from the commanding officer of the squadron in which Lieutenant Martin Hunter had so briefly, so tragically served. It stated simply that as no record could be found of a relative of Lieutenant Hunter they were forwarding this letter, addressed to her, with this notification. Her name had been on the enclosed envelope which, unfortunately the censor had to open. The officer sympathised with Miss Hughes, regretting his sad duty in reporting Lieutenant Hunter missing, believed killed. She appeared to be the sole beneficiary of the officer’s estate in his will, a copy of which was enclosed and she was advised to consult a solicitor as soon as she was able.

Martin’s letter was short.

My darling,

I love you. There is really nothing more to be said but those words. If it had been allowed we would have been lovers, friends, dear and close, trusting, giving to one another the joy of sharing life’s pleasures and sorrows, however large, or small. You know me as no other person does and you have the whole of me now, and always. Be happy, my beautiful girl. I cannot believe we shall not meet again for surely it cannot end here. Meg, I love you so.

Martin.

She went into her room and locked the door and drew the curtains in that first moment after reading the letter and sat down on the floor and put her hands over her ears as if the action would prevent her from hearing her world break to pieces around her. She sat like that for a long time and when they came and knocked on her door, asking what they should do about the menus – for Miss Hughes saw to those personally – she did not answer since she did not hear them.

She sat like a marble statue for twelve unmoving hours, her eyes fixed on the emptiness of her life and whispered madly to herself for she was quite out of her mind.

‘He was my whole life. What shall I do now?’ she asked herself, and her body rocked back and forth in torment.

‘Where has he gone?’ she moaned. ‘The world is so cold without him in it,’ but there was no-one there and no-one answered for it was the first time in her life Meg Hughes had been completely alone.

She would have stayed there, dying of it, Annie Hardcastle supposed – had their Edie been made of the stuff which obeys orders and speaks when spoken to and takes no interest in what her employer did as long as she was given her wages at the end of the week – but Edie Marshall remembered Meg Hughes’ treatment of her at ‘The Hawthorne Tree’ and her appreciation, quite openly and delightfully displayed when Edie had worked for her. She remembered Meg Hughes’ undeniable pleasure when Edie had promised to come with her to ‘Hilltops’.

‘Oh thank you, Edie,’ she had said, ‘it will be reassuring to have someone I can trust in the kitchens,’ and she had given her the
splendid
job of housekeeper which meant Edie did not have the hard, manual work she had done all her life and which she was getting too old to perform and she did not forget those kindnesses. Miss Hughes had been off-colour for a while, out of sorts and peaky, then, just as suddenly, for the space of a month or two she had gone about singing even though Mr Tom had left for the training camp and her face had been rosy and her eyes filled with the loveliest light though Edie could not begin to guess why.

But as she confessed to Annie on the telephone two days after Miss Hughes took to her bed, she didn’t like it one bit. Not a sound out of her, she said, though Jenny swore she heard someone moaning in the vicinity of Miss Hughes’ bedroom but how much credence one could give to that was anyone’s guess for Jenny Swales was known to be of a highly imaginative nature.

‘Did anything happen, Edie?’ The tinny voice of Annie Hardcastle asked and Edie held the receiver away from her ear since she was not awfully sure of the damage it might do to her. She wouldn’t have used the contraption at all but really she was that worried about Miss Hughes. Two days and no-one had seen her, nor heard her voice even, and the post office two doors up from Annie’s was very obliging in the matter of telephone calls, bringing anyone from the village to the store in cases of emergency.

‘What d’you mean, Annie?’

‘Did anything happen to upset her?’

‘Not that I know of. Eeh, Annie, I don’t know what to do. I’ve knocked a dozen times a day but there’s no answer. If she’s not well …’

‘Has she heard from Mr Tom?’