Between Friends (23 page)

Still she tried to outface him. Her lion heart pumped hot blood through her body and her trembling limbs struggled to gain strength from it. Her face was the colour of pipe-clay. Her eyes were the deep yellow of a cat which is cornered but she stiffened her back and lifted her head challengingly.

‘Now Megan, let us not be unreasonable,’ he said softly. ‘I merely wish you and I to be … friends. It is not too much to ask of you, is it, and it would mean so much to Mrs Whitley and the other one. I am good to those who … please me, Megan. I believe you to be fond of the old woman, and of course, any good fortune
you
might gain from your … friendship with me, would encompass those of whom you are fond. A rise in your wages could be used to make your companion’s life more comfortable, you do see that, do you not, Megan. There would be no need for you to tell the others of our little … arrangement if you did not wish it since I can see where it might make it awkward for you. The other
servants
… well … they need not know. When I am in need of … companionship I will come to your room and we will … well, I am sure you know what we will do, my dear. You are a very pretty girl, Megan and I would find it most enjoyable to …’

Here he began to speak words of such obscenity, such odious, scarcely understood grossness, Megan felt her mind begin to slip away to escape the filth with which he smilingly coated her. The images he evoked were so terrible she felt herself to be already violated and her young innocence hid her mercifully away from it in the only way it knew how. Megan Hughes turned off completely then. She stared numbly into Harris’ pale, pale grey eyes and from across the room the vileness in them and in the looseness of his mouth did not even penetrate the numbness of her terror-stricken brain.

‘… you shall naturally have another room, nearer to mine, so if you would like to go into Liverpool and choose some … some pretty things, for your new room and for yourself … underwear … lace … you know what I would like, I’m sure. All women know how to please a gentleman, do they not Megan and I’m certain you are no exception. Would you not like that, Megan? To have nice things …?’

Her head had drooped as his words hung over her. Her face was in shadow and her long lashes hid her eyes.

‘Look at me, Megan.’ His voice was blurred and hoarse with his lust. ‘Look at me.’ Her hands trembled against the smooth whiteness of her apron, clutching at each other, but when she raised her eyes to his the expression in them made him recoil. In them was the venom of a snake before it strikes, the hatred of a lioness as she defends her cubs from the hunter, the loathing of a woman who will kill to avenge a wrong done her. Though her face was waxen, with no colour nor life and her mouth was soft, trembling, vulnerable as that of a child her eyes were on fire, hot and smouldering with malevolence, a passion of loathing so great he fully expected her to spring for his throat.

His exultation soared and he could scarce keep his hands from her now, this very minute. God, it was going to be marvellous taming this magnificent child, he rejoiced. The barmaid had long since lost her charm. Those of the working class who had taken her place, for Benjamin Harris had a liking for those who were socially inferior to himself, had not always been willing to cater to his own predilection in the ways of pleasing his body but this
one
, she would be formidable! She would have no choice! Her eyes told him she knew that as they looked at him balefully but they said she would fight, fight him every step of the way nevertheless! His humbling of her would give him the greatest satisfaction he had ever known with a woman, but she must be absolutely certain that he meant every word he had said to her.

‘The night air is sharp at this time of the year, Megan and the food in the poor house quite inferior. It would not sustain a woman in good health, let alone one who is … vulnerable!’

He watched as she became as lifeless as the porcelain figurine on his mantelshelf. ‘Now, my dear, you may return to your duties but remember what I have said. I will leave you some money to buy yourself some … pretties.’ The word was said with a lecherous, almost inhuman smile, like that of a fox which lifts its muzzle to take its prey. ‘I am to be away tomorrow and have some business to which I must attend later today, but when I return on Friday I shall expect to find you in … well, I leave it to you to choose a suitable room.’

He smiled, waving her away peremptorily, the master dismissing the maid.

Quietly she turned and left the room.

‘HAS HE GONE?’

‘Aye. Across to the wolds for a few days, he said, wherever that is and I hope he falls and breaks his bloody neck because I don’t think I can take much more of this, our Meg. If he calls me “boy” once more I’ll bash his flamin’ face in, gospel, our kid, or wring his neck and then I’ll swing for him. Jesus only knows how we’re going to get through the rest of this winter with Mrs Whitley like she is. He’ll kill her, Meg, you realise that, don’t you? Surely to God it can’t be true what he says about old Hemingway and all these economies he’s on about. I can’t believe that decent old chap we met with Martin could be so cold-hearted that he’d begrudge an old woman, someone who’s worked hard in his employ, honest as the day is long, a bit of a fire in her room when she’s ill! It just goes to show! Much always wants more and I suppose that’s why he’s living where
he
is and the likes of us are here! What I can’t understand is why Martin thinks the world of him like he does. Surely he wouldn’t work for someone as bloody minded as Harris makes him out to be? Martin’s got a bloody good head on his …’

‘You’d better watch your language, Tom. You know Mrs Whitley doesn’t like it.’

‘I can’t help it, Meg. He’s enough to make a saint swear. D’you know, if he wasn’t away with Martin I’d go up there and demand to see him …’

‘Who?’

‘Hemingway, of course. It’s not right, Meg and if Martin was here he’d say the same, you know he would. I wonder when they get back?’ Tom pushed his hand distractedly through his hair, forcing the short golden curls to stand on end. ‘What the hell can they find to do with them damn racing cars, anyway? You’d think they’d get sick to death of dashing from one bloody place to another. Irish trials, hill climbs, Scottish trials, Brooklands track, Pately Bridge, bloody places I’ve never even heard of.’

‘Well, Mr Hemingway is pleased they’ve won so many events, Martin says, so I expect …’

‘I dunno …’ Tom interrupted her irritably, his hands thrust deep in his pockets as though to release them they might do someone some damage, ‘it makes you wonder what grown men find so fascinating about racing one motor car against another. I can see no sense nor purpose in it myself. Aah well …’ he sighed resignedly, ‘… each to his own, I suppose!’

He began to mix up the paste with which he cleaned the brass base of the lamps, his face set in lines of puzzled ill-humour. The fierce look of concentration, the hunted air of a fox as the hounds close in, the almost visible tension which swept Meg about the room like a broom being wielded by some demented hand seemed not to be noticed as he spat and polished, muttering as he did so under his breath.

‘You got any money, Tom?’ The abrupt question made him jump and he dropped the glass bowl of the lamp on to the chenille covered table.

‘
Money?
’

‘Yes, for God’s sake! You know what money is, don’t you?’

‘There’s no need to snap my head off, Meg. I was only …’

Meg sighed and turning on the rug before the kitchen fire sank slowly to her knees. Her face was rosy from the dancing flames but beneath the soft colour there was strain and her mouth was set in a rigid line. The light danced in her eyes giving them an almost merry sparkle but there was a dispirited droop to her strong shoulders and a faint shake in her hands as she held them out to the warmth.

‘I’m sorry, Tom. I know you haven’t got any, it’s just that …’

Tom got up from the table and moved across the kitchen until he stood beside her. He sat down on the stool where Emm usually perched herself to warm her thin shanks and leaned forward. He took Meg’s hand, holding it with such gentleness it might have been a wounded bird. It trembled in his and he bent to look softly into her face. His eyes were filled with the light of his loving concern and she nearly gave in then. The sweetness, the inherent goodness of this boy for that was what he was compared to her own brutal introduction to the foulness of man’s perversion, swept away all the fragile half-formed plans she had devised during the night to gain their freedom and which now she was bitterly aware were no more than a child’s fairy tale. Tom’s gaze almost cracked
the
thin casing of armour she had gathered about herself to protect what was the pure essence of Megan Hughes and she despaired then, for how was she to shoulder alone the enormity of this ghastly burden? Try as she might, twist and turn and duck as her mind had done in the bed she still shared with Emm, she was fettered as closely to Benjamin Harris as if they were joined by iron shackles. She could walk away! She and Tom could walk away and be free to pick and choose from the work which was available to those who are young and strong and experienced. They could put Mrs Whitley and Emm into the Poor House. There would be a pallet for them there to sleep on, with a thin blanket and a bowl of something each day to sustain life but how could
she
be sustained, how could Megan Hughes live on and be free if she allowed it. And she could not share her burden! She could not find relief by pouring out her fear, her horror and shame to Mrs Whitley or to Tom.

Tom! She held his hand and leaned her head against his shoulder. He smelled … clean. His shirt had the fragrance of fresh ironing, his hair and skin of the coal tar soap he used and his breath was as sweet as that of a child. He was sound and wholesome. He was strong and he would protect her with his life and that was why she dare not tell him for there was no doubt in her mind that if she did his rage would be the killing rage of a
quiet
man, the rare and terrible anger of those who do not come to it easily. He would simply beat Benjamin Harris with his untrained fists until the violence had been spent and they would be worse off than they were now. Mrs Whitley would still be at death’s door. Poor simple Emm would be without a job and bereft of the prospect of another and the winter weather as fierce as a hungry wolf at the door. Tom would no doubt be in prison and herself … Dear God … where would
she
be without them all? If only it were summer again. If only they had been able to get a new place during the
past
summer. If only Martin was home … and Mr Hemingway. Surely,
surely
the old man would listen to her if she were to tell him of what Harris was after. Surely he would
believe
her … Oh dear Lord, she was so frightened … so frightened … she couldn’t think properly she was so frightened.

‘What is it, lovey? What’s happened?’ Tom put his big hand clumsily to her bright hair.

‘It’s … no, really … it’s just … well. I wish we could …’

‘What? What is it?’

‘If we could just get away from here …’

Tom stroked her hair gently and his face was sad. Sad with the helplessness of a young man who longs to protect and provide for his family but who knows it is beyond him. And yet there was a fierce resolution in his eyes which struggled with his sorrow, asking was he not a young man and strong and would not his youth and his strength prevail in the end. If they could just scrape through this winter they would find something, somewhere, someone who would take them all in. By God, he’d tramp the streets every hour he had free until he’d found them a resting place. Perhaps he could manage a cycle ride out to some of the farms which were scattered about the countryside. They needed labourers and maids and skivvies just as they did in town, didn’t they? and the three of them, if they worked hard, could support Mrs Whitley. Maybe they could get a cottage, a ‘tied’ cottage they called them, which were rented for a nominal charge, he had heard, to those who worked the land or in the kitchens of the farmhouse. They would find
something
, of course they would. Or they could even go to another town. He was a real ‘Dicky Sam’, the name given to a man born within a mile of the Mersey wall and he loved his native town of Liverpool but he’d go anywhere,
anywhere
to get work and take that strange and dreadful look from their Meg’s face.

With the eternal optimism of youth he turned Meg’s face to his, smiling into it, determined to instil his own hopes for the coming spring into
her
.

‘We will, love, we will, I promise you. As soon as Cook perks up and can get out of her bed we’ll look for another place. We’ll get her and Emm fixed up right as rain. Just give it a couple of months. We’ve stuck it so far, Meggie. Another couple of months won’t be so bad.’

A couple of months! Dear God, it would be too late in a couple of months. By then she’d be Harris’ … she would be … She could find no word to describe it except the one by which all such women are called and her heart turned to stone within her at the sound of it in her head and she knew unequivocally that she could not do it. She could not.
She could not!

Tom had moved away now, returning to the cleaning of the lamps for if he didn’t have them, and the hundred and one other jobs Harris had instructed him to ‘see to’, finished by the time he got back he’d be out on his ear, he said. He felt quite cheerful
now
, his own thoughts relieving his mind somewhat. Harris was to be away until Friday so they would have the dread sense of his presence removed for a while. They could relax a bit. Meg could have a rest and be easier in her mind without
him
breathing down her neck and Mrs Whitley could have a bit of good grub inside her for a change. He turned to grin endearingly at Meg, the words of comfort already forming on his lips but they never got there. Instead he stared, bewildered, his mouth open and gaping.