A Woman of Substance

TWENTY-SEVEN

‘There’s the Mucky Duck, luv,’ said the tinker, drawing his horse and cart to a standstill in York Road and pointing a stubby and none too clean finger at the public house.

‘But it says “Black Swan”,’ exclaimed Emma, reading the name on the sign swinging in the breeze. Confirming the lettering was a picture of a white pond upon which floated a somewhat primitive painting of an ebony swan, neck arched in such an ungainly fashion it was hardly a lifelike rendition of that elegant bird.

The tinker’s wife, all Romany-dark curls and wrinkled tanned face, cackled uproariously at Emma’s astonishment. ‘Aye, lass, that’s wot they calls the Black Swan in Leeds. The Mucky Duck. Don’t yer get it?’ She cackled again, displaying several gold teeth that glittered as brightly as the golden rings looped through her ears and which dropped below the red-and-white-checkered scarf draped on top of her gypsy hair.

‘Yes, I do,’ said Emma with an amused smile. She clutched her reticule to her and climbed down carefully from the cart. The tinker handed her the large leather suitcase which Edwin had deposited in her room yesterday with the five pounds. She looked up at the tinker and his gypsy wife and said gravely, and with enormous politeness, ‘Thank you very much for giving me the ride all the way from Shipley. It was very kind of you.’

‘Nay, lass, it weren’t no trouble,’ said the tinker kindly. ‘Glad ter be of service ter a fine young lady like thee.’ He flicked the reins and the dilapidated cart moved off, pots and pans strung on the sides rattling and banging merrily as the old wheels turned in rickety rhythm. The tinker’s wife looked back, shouting, ‘Lots o’ luck in Leeds, me pretty ’un.’

‘Thank you,’ Emma called, waving at the retreating cart. She stood outside the pub for a moment and then picked up the suitcase, took a deep breath, and pushed open the swinging doors made of heavy wood, the upper panels inset with opaque glass embellished with engraved lilies and swans. She immediately found herself in a narrow and gloomy passage that smelled strongly of stale beer, tobacco smoke, and the faint reek of gas from the jets on the walls. The latter were lined with a dull brown wallpaper that only reinforced the forbidding atmosphere, which prevailed in spite of the burning gas jets and was not very inviting.

Emma looked about curiously. There was a carefully printed notice pinned on one wall which declared in large letters: Women in shawls not allowed in here! It seemed to her like an ominous warning. The opposite wall sported a repulsive painting of a charging bull in an equally ugly ornate gilt frame. Emma shuddered, her critical eye offended by its hideousness. Ahead of her was another set of double swinging doors, also inset with opaque glass, and she hurried forward and went through them. Emma stood in the entrance of what was obviously the main bar. It was brightly illuminated and infinitely more cheerful, with its colourful wallpaper and attractive sepia prints, and there was a piano in one corner. The bar was empty, except for two men leaning against the back wall drinking their frothing pints and chatting amiably together. Emma’s sharp eyes scanned the surroundings, missing nothing. Two other rooms opened off the main bar. The sign hanging above the archway leading into one proclaimed it to be the Saloon Bar, while the other was labelled Tap Room. In the Tap Room she could see a lone workman playing darts, and two old men were seated at a table absorbed in a game of dominoes, clay pipes firmly clenched between their individual sets of nicotine-stained teeth, smoke swirling fuggily around them.

Emma now glanced towards the bar itself. Several large mirrors hung on the wall behind it, each one extolling the virtues of Tetley’s pale ale and other local beers in black and gold lettering. There were innumerable bottles of spirits glittering against the mirrored backdrop and below them great kegs of beer. The long and expansive mahogany counter was polished to a sheen as glassy and almost as shimmering a surface as the mirrors themselves, and just visible above the mahogany bar was a mop of blonde hair. Emma walked sedately across the room, her boots tip-tapping lightly on the wooden floor. Out of the corner of her eye she was aware of the two men regarding her, but she paid no attention and kept her glance fixed unwaveringly ahead.

When she reached the bar she put down the suitcase, but gripped the reticule in her hands. The blonde head bobbed about below the bar. Emma cleared her throat. ‘Excuse me,’ she said.

The blonde head swivelled to reveal a cheerful face that was open and honest. It was a pink and white face, and extremely pretty, with full cheeks and dimples and merry brown eyes that danced under shapely blonde brows. ‘Yes, luv?’ said the blonde lady, rising slowly and somewhat ponderously from her crouching position, holding a glass tankard and a cloth in her hands.

Emma had to stifle a gasp, for that face, so sweet and dimpling and extraordinarily pretty, and that blonde head with its array of elaborately dressed curls, sat atop an enormously fat body that was also amazingly tall. Her incredible body was tightly encased in a bright yellow cotton dress with a low square neckline and short puffed sleeves. Gargantuan bosom, portions of wide shoulders, and long plumpish arms were in striking evidence and were also white and pinkly tinted and soft.

The lady was looking at her questioningly and Emma said courteously, ‘I’m looking for a Miss Rosie. I was told she was the barmaid here.’

The pink face broke into a wide and friendly smile that was also highly engaging and full of the most natural charm. ‘Well, yer’ve found her, luv. That’s me. I’m Rosie. What can I do for yer, miss?’

Emma’s taut body relaxed and she found herself automatically smiling back at the beaming Rosie. ‘I’m a friend of Blackie O’Neill’s. He told me that you would take a message for him. Get it to him quickly, or to his Uncle Pat.’

Ho! Ho! thought Rosie, concealing a knowing look. So Blackie was up to his tricks again with the lasses, was he! Well, he certainly knows how ter pick ’em, commented Rosie to herself. This one’s a real looker. Rosie planted the glass and the cloth on the bar and said, ‘Yes, luv, I can get a message ter Blackie. Trouble is, it won’t do yer any good. He’s not in Leeds, yer see. He went off yesterday. Yer’ve just missed him. Aye, he went ter Liverpool ter get the boat ter Ireland. Summat about going ter see an old priest who was very badly, mebbe dying, so Blackie was telling me afore he left.’

‘Oh, dear,’ said Emma, and distress registered on her face so acutely Rosie could not fail to notice it. The Junoesque barmaid stretched out her plump arm and rested plump fingers on Emma’s hand gently. ‘Are yer all right, luv? Yer look a bit faintish ter me. How about a brandy or a rum and pep, mebbe? Do yer good, yer knows.’

Emma shook her head, endeavouring to quell the anxiety flaring within her. ‘No, thank you, Miss Rosie. I don’t drink spirits,’ she murmured. The possibility that Blackie would be away had never occurred to her. She was so shaken she found it difficult to speak.

‘Then how about a nice glass of lemon pop?’ went on Rosie, regarding Emma carefully. ‘It’s refreshing and yer looks ever so peaked ter me.’ Without waiting for a response, Rosie uncorked a bottle of lemonade and poured a glass. Emma did not want to spend the money for the lemon drink. Every penny was precious to her; yet, then again, she did not want to offend Rosie either, who was being so kind and friendly.

‘Thank you,’ Emma said softly, and opened her handbag. ‘How much is it, please?’

‘Nay, lass, it’s nowt. This one’s on the ’ouse. On Rosie,’ she said, placing the brimming glass in front of Emma. ‘Go on, ’ave a sip. It won’t kill yer,’ she added jocularly, and laughed. Then her merry face sobered. The girl had turned as white as chalk and Rosie immediately noticed that the small hand in the white crocheted glove trembled as it picked up the glass.

‘ ’Ere, ’Arry! Fetch me one of them there stools from out of the Tap Room, will yer, please?’ called Rosie to one of the men at the far end of the bar. ‘This ’ere young lady looks a bit wobbly on her pins ter me.’

‘Right, Rosie,’ said the man named Harry. He returned instantly, carrying a tall stool. ‘ ’Ere yer are, luv, sit yerself down,’ he said, and gave Emma a warm smile before he rejoined his mate.

‘Thank you.’ Emma perched on the stool gratefully. She felt weak and her head was swimming at the alarming news Rosie had imparted about Blackie.

Rosie leaned her elbows on the bar and looked at Emma intently, a concerned expression on her face, her jolliness dissipated. ‘Look, luv, I knows it’s none of me business, but do yer have troubles? Yer seems ever so upset ter me.’

Emma hesitated. Distrustful by nature, she also firmly believed in the old north-country adage, ‘a still tongue and a wise head’, and she was therefore not given to confiding anything in anyone. Now her mind worked rapidly and with its usual shrewdness. She was in a strange place. An enormous city. She did not know her way around. With Blackie in Ireland she had no one to turn to for help. And so she came to a swift decision. She would trust Rosie-but only to a certain extent. She had no choice, really. But first she had one other question and it was of vital importance.

She returned Rosie’s steady gaze and instead of spilling out her troubles, as the barmaid probably expected, she said, ‘What about Blackie’s Uncle Pat? Could I go and see him and perhaps find out when Blackie is returning? He is, isn’t he?’

‘Oh, yes, luv. Blackie’ll be back in a couple of weeks or so. A fortnight he said he was going for. But it won’t do yer any good going ter see Pat either. He’s in Doncaster doing a right big building job. He’s gone for a bit, I expects.’

Emma sighed and stared fixedly at the lemonade. Rosie waited patiently, not wanting to appear nosy but, riddled with curiosity, she insisted, ‘Why don’t yer tell me yer troubles, luv? Perhaps I can help.’

After only a moment’s further hesitation, Emma said, ‘Yes, I do have a problem. I have to find a place to stay. A boardinghouse. Perhaps you can advise me, Miss Rosie. That’s why I wanted to see Blackie.’

‘ ’Ere, lass, what’s all this Miss Rosie? We don’t stand on ceremony around ’ere. Everybody calls me Rosie. Just Rosie, plain and simple like. And why don’t yer tell me yer name, being as how yer a friend of a friend.’

Emma thought of her father and the possibility of him searching for her. But from the note she had left he would believe she had gone to Bradford and he did not know about the Mucky Duck or Blackie’s last name. She was safe. ‘It’s Emma Harte,’ she said, and added, to her own amazement, ‘Mrs Harte.’

Rosie’s eyes widened. ‘Are yer married, then?’ she asked, thinking: And where’s the husband? but refrained from prying. Emma nodded, not trusting herself to say anything else for the moment. She had surprised herself more than she had surprised Rosie.

‘Well, seeing as we’re properly acquainted, so ter speak, and now that I knows yer problem, let’s get down ter brass tacks. Yer looking for a place ter park yerself. Mmmmm. Let me think on that.’ Rosie frowned, her eyes thoughtful.

‘What about that boarding-house where Blackie lives? Couldn’t I go there?’ Emma volunteered. She was feeling a little calmer, thinking more clearly.

‘By gum, no lass!’ exclaimed Rosie with such vehemence Emma was startled. ‘I couldn’t be letting a luvely young lady like thee go down there, ter the blinking “ham and shank”-that’s the Bank, yer knows, near the Leylands. Full of toughs, it is. No, luv, that wouldn’t be fitting like.’ Rosie scowled and seriously pondered this problem, wanting to help the girl. After a moment her face resumed its usual jolly expression and she smiled. ‘I ’ave it. Yer can go ter see Mrs Daniel. She rents out rooms in her ’ouse. It’s not far from ’ere. Yer can walk it easy. I’ll write down the address for yer. Tell her Rosie from the Mucky Duck sent yer. Yer’ll be safe there. She’s a bit of a gruff ’un, Mrs Daniel is, but kindly enough.’

‘How much will a room cost?’ Emma asked quietly.

Rosie looked at her sharply. ‘Don’t yer have much brass, luv?’ she probed but not without sympathy. The girl looked visibly troubled again and her consternation at not finding Blackie had been more than apparent. What’s that young boyo been up ter? Rosie wondered, staring at Emma. Yet the girl had said she was married. Still, there’s more ter this than meets the eye, decided the shrewd Rosie.

Emma was conscious of Rosie’s scrutiny. She cleared her throat and adopted a calm expression, ‘Oh, yes, I do have a few pounds,’ she said confidently, quite unconsciously tightening her grip on the bag, which had not left her hands since she had departed from Fairley early that morning. It contained every penny she had and her few bits of jewellery.

Rosie flashed Emma a reassuring smile. ‘Well, then, that’s not so bad, is it! And Mrs Daniel is fair and square like. She won’t sting yer. I expects she’ll charge yer a few shillings a week for a room, that’s all. I don’t thinks she gives yer any grub for that. But yer can buy yer own. There’s a fish-and-chip shop at the end of her street, and there’s allus a man with a cart selling pies and peas and roamin’ around by her.’

‘I’ll manage,’ said Emma, swallowing hard again. The mere thought of food nauseated her these days. The sickness she was now experiencing every morning seemed to last all day sometimes. She said, ‘I’m grateful, Rosie, for your help. Really I am. And I’m sure Mrs Daniel’s room will be fine.’

‘Aye, it will, luv. And she’s clean and honest. Look, sit and rest yerself. I’ll go ter the back parlour and get a bit of paper and write down Mrs Daniel’s address for yer.’ Rosie paused and added, ‘Yer a stranger in Leeds, aren’t yer, Emma?’

‘Yes, I am, Rosie.’

‘Then I’ll put it all down for yer. How ter get there like. I’ll only be a tick.’

‘Thank you, Rosie, you are kind.’

Rosie bustled off to the parlour, numerous thoughts running through her head. She was much taken with this girl who had appeared from nowhere. In point of fact, she was intrigued by her. Emma Harte had such-Rosie paused in the middle of the parlour, seeking the appropriate word to describe Emma. Dignity! Yes, that was it. She was good-looking, too. That face! thought Rosie with not a little wonder. Why, she had never seen so striking a face in all her life before. She was a beauty, really, even if it was a different sort of beauty. Uncommon like.

‘This is no ordinary girl, or a lass from the working class. And that’s a certainty!’ Rosie announced aloud to the empty room. Rosie Miller, who considered herself to be a sound judge of people, since she came into contact with all types and classes in the pub, knew she could never be deceived by anybody. Aye, she’s a real lady, Rosie decided. There was the way Emma spoke, for instance. No dialect or local slang in her speech and only the faintest hint of a Yorkshire accent in her cultured voice. Not only that, there was her bearing and fine manners. Breeding, said Rosie knowingly. And her clothes, thought the barmaid, as she searched for a piece of paper and a pencil. Well, the black dress was a bit old-fashioned, Rosie had to admit, but it was made of good stuff and was elegantly cut. And the cream bonnet was definitely real Leghorn straw and the flowers trimming it were of pure silk. Rosie knew things about clothes. She did indeed, and she had only ever seen Quality ladies wearing a bonnet like that one. London town it was. And what about the crocheted gloves and the smart leather bag with its tortoiseshell frame? Those were certainly the possessions of a proper lady, as were the amber beads. Rosie considered the suitcase she had observed on the floor. Costly, it was, and made of real leather. Yes, she’s gentry all right, Rosie concluded. She licked the pencil and began to carefully print Mrs Daniel’s address. As Rosie wrote she became further intrigued, considering that this Emma Harte had come seeking out Blackie O’Neill, the Irish navvy. He was a handsome hunk of a man, no doubt about that. Still, he was a common labourer. Now what can the connection between them be? Rosie asked herself, mystified.

‘ ’Ere I am,’ exclaimed Rosie, sailing up behind the bar. She looks ever so sad, thought Rosie, glancing at Emma. Emma jumped. She had been lost in her thoughts. ‘This is the address, and I’ve wrote down the directions as ter how yer get ter Mrs Daniel’s ’ouse,’ Rosie went on, handing the paper to Emma.

‘Thank you, Rosie.’ Emma read the paper. The directions were quite clear.

Rosie leaned over the bar, adopting a more confidential air. ‘I said afore, I don’t want ter seem like a Nosy Parker, but yer still seem upset, luv. Can I help yer in any other way? Blackie’s been a right good friend ter me. I’d like ter repay his kindness by helping a friend of his, ’specially a friend in need, so ter speak.’

Emma remained silent. She had no intention of confiding her real troubles in Rosie; on the other hand, she was a kindhearted woman and was evidently a native of Leeds. It occurred to Emma se might be able to offer some advice on another matter. Emma turned her eyes on Rosie. ‘Yes, I do have one other problem. I have to find a job,’ Emma explained.

‘Ooh, luv, I don’t know where a fine young lady like thee could get work in Leeds.’ Rosie leaned closer and dropped her voice and she could not resist asking, ‘Where’s yer husband, luv?’

Emma was not caught unawares. She had prepared herself for this obvious question during Rosie’s absence, since she had told her she was married. ‘He’s in the Royal Navy. At the moment he’s on Mediterranean duty. For the next six months.’ This was said so coolly, with such sureness and confidence Rosie believed her.

‘And don’t yer have any other family, then?’

‘No, I don’t,’ Emma lied.

‘But where were yer living afore?’ Rosie questioned, keen eyes peering.

Fully conscious of Rosie’s growing interest in her, Emma said, ‘With his grandmother. Near Ripon. My husband is an orphan, as I am. His grandmother died recently and now I am alone, since Winston is away at sea. That is, I’m alone until he comes home on leave.’ Although she had embarked upon a pack of lies, unintentionally and somewhat to her chagrin, Emma was endeavouring to stick to the truth as much as possible. It was simpler and, more importantly, easier to remember in the future.

‘I see,’ said Rosie, nodding. ‘And how did yer meet Blackie, then?’ She was no longer able to control her avid curiosity.

‘Blackie came to do some work for-for my husband’s grandmother,’ Emma improvised swiftly. ‘He was always kind, doing extra jobs for us, for very little money. He liked the old lady, you see. He also knew she was not long for this world. I had told him that when she died I wanted to come to Leeds to find work. Blackie said I should look him up.’ Emma paused and sipped the lemonade to gain time. She was rather astounded at her aptitude for deception, and also her suavity at telling such a tall tale. On the other hand, she must now continue and make it convincing. ‘Blackie suggested I might find work in one of the new shops, selling finery to the ladies. He thought a well-educated person like me would be useful in a shop. I can also sew and do alterations.’

‘Aye, that’s an idea,’ said Rosie, feeling extremely pleased with herself. She had been right about this girl coming from Quality folk. It had been patently obvious to her all along that Emma could only have met Blackie in his capacity as a workman, doing repairs at her home. Impoverished gentry, that’s what this Emma Harte was. ‘I’ll tell yer what yer should do, luv,’ went on Rosie helpfully. ‘Monday morning, bright and early, pop along ter Briggate. Yer’ll find it easy enough. It’s a big street. There are lots of new shops in them there fancy arcades. Yer might find just the right opening-’ Rosie stopped short. A group of men had entered the pub and were heading towards the bar. She sighed and then smiled kindly at Emma. ‘Sit a while, if yer wants, Emma. But it’s going ter get busy now. I won’t be having much time ter chat with yer, luv.’

‘Thank you, but I had better go and see Mrs Daniel and settle the matter about the room.’ Emma stood up. She smiled brightly. ‘Thank you again, Rosie, for all your help. I appreciate it.’

Rosie nodded. ‘Aay, lass, I’ve done nowt, really. Hey, keep in touch with me, yer hear! Let me know if yer moves from Mrs Daniel’s ’ouse. So as I can tell Blackie where yer are. And pop in and see me, if yer gets lonely, or if yer needs owt else, luv.’

‘Yes, I will, Rosie. Thank you again. Goodbye.’ Emma picked up the suitcase and with another flashing smile she left the pub.

Rosie’s soft doe-like eyes followed her thoughtfully. By gum, I hopes she’s all right, she said to herself. Such a luvely girl. And all alone in the world. It’s a right shame, it is, really. Rosie hoped she would see her again. There was something special about Emma Harte.

Once she was outside the pub Emma studied the paper Rosie had given her, pushed it into her pocket, and set off determinedly to find Mrs Daniel’s house. There were, in actuality, many rooms for rent in the vicinity of the Mucky Duck, but Rosie had purposely selected Mrs Daniel’s boardinghouse for Emma, even though it was much farther away than she had indicated. Rosie had wanted the girl out of this dreadful area of Leeds, for York Road was bordered on all sides by tough neighbourhoods where grown men were not safe, let alone a defenceless girl. And so Rosie’s own fear of the district had reached out like a protective arm to shield Emma.

Most of the streets stretching beyond and away from these devastating slum areas were safe, but they were narrow and ugly, with dark, mean-looking back-to-back houses pressing against each other, a cruel inheritance from the Victorian era, wretched dwellings for the working classes. Emma concentrated on the street names, hurrying as fast as she could, for this great city, full of bustling people, carts and horses, carriages and tram-cars, was confusing and strange to her after the quietness of Fairley village. Yet, conversely, she was not intimidated. However, she did not stop to consider these new and diverse sights, or gaze at them in wonder. Emma occupied herself fundamentally with one problem at a time, and at this very moment her aim was to install herself in a room, find a job, and wait for Blackie’s return, in that order. She dare not think of anything else, and most especially the baby. She kept her eyes ahead but alert, noting the names as she sped along, one hand clutching her reticule in a fierce grip, the other grasping the leather suitcase.

After thirty minutes of fast walking, without a pause for breath, she sighed with relief. There in front of her was the street where Mrs Daniel’s house was located. Rosie’s directions had been explicit. Now, for the first time, Emma stopped and put down the suitcase and pulled the paper from her pocket-Mrs Daniel’s house was number five. This street, too, was dark, with a poverty-stricken air, but Emma cheered considerably when she reached number five. It was a taller house than she had expected, and narrow, wedged in between others, its Victorian walls blackened by factory soot and years of industrial grime. But the lace curtains at the sparkling windows were crisp and white and the door knocker gleamed brightly in the faint afternoon sunlight. The three steps in front of the house had been scrubbed to silvery whiteness over the years and the edges were brilliantly yellow from the scouring stone obviously used daily to outline the worn rims.

Emma practically flew up the steps and banged the brass knocker several times. After a short delay the door was opened. A thin woman with grey hair and a sour expression on her lined and sallow face glared down at Emma.

‘Yes, what do yer want?’ she asked peremptorily.

‘I would like to speak to Mrs Daniel, please?’

‘That’s me,’ said the woman curtly.

The indomitable Emma was neither unnerved nor daunted by the woman’s nasty tone and inhospitable manner. She had to get a room here at all costs. Today. She did not have time to roam Leeds looking any further. And so she smiled her most radiant smile and instinctively adopted a charming manner, one which she herself had not known she possessed until that very instant. ‘I’m pleased to meet you, Mrs Daniel. My name is Emma Harte. Rosie from the Mucky Duck sent me to see you. She thought you would be willing to rent a room to me.’

‘I only takes gentlemen boarders,’ snapped Mrs Daniel, ‘less trouble. Besides, I’m full.’

‘Oh, dear me,’ said Emma softly, riveting her enormous eyes on the woman. ‘And Rosie was so sure you would have a room available. Even a small one would do.’ Emma glanced up. ‘It’s quite a large house, isn’t it?’

‘Aye, it is, but me two best bedrooms are let. There’s only the second attic and I never rents that.’

Emma’s heart sank but the smile did not waver. ‘Perhaps you might consider renting that other attic to me, Mrs Daniel. And I certainly wouldn’t be any trouble. Rosie will give me a reference if-’

‘It’s not that,’ the woman interrupted in a snappish tone. ‘I’m full up, as I said.’ She glared at Emma. ‘I can only cope with two lodgers and I’ve got them already.’ She made to close the door.

Emma smiled again, and winsomely. ‘Please, Mrs Daniel, don’t be hasty. It would be a great help to me if you would rent me the attic for a few weeks. Just as long as it is convenient for you. It would give me a chance to find somewhere else. Rosie was so sure you would be obliging. She spoke so well of you and recommended you highly. She told me you ran a clean and proper house, and that I would be safe here. Rosie said you were a good and honest woman.’

Mrs Daniel made no comment, but she was listening intently. ‘You see, I’m not from Leeds,’ Emma rushed on, determined to keep the woman engaged. She also wanted to convince her that she would be no trouble and dispel the apparent hostility the landlady had for women boarders. ‘I was living near Ripon, with my husband’s grandmother, and she died recently.’ Emma noted the look of amazement on Mrs Daniel’s face at the mention of a husband, but before she had a chance to say anything, Emma explained, ‘My husband is in the Royal Navy. On the high seas for six months. I would be grateful if I could stay with you, for only a few weeks. It would give me time to find a place of our own, for when my dear husband comes back on leave.’

The woman was silent, obviously ruminating on Emma’s story. Emma’s mind raced. Persuasion, flattery, and charm were having no effect at all. Perhaps she should appeal to her greed. ‘I can pay you a month in advance, Mrs Daniel. After all, a little extra money is always useful, isn’t it? For that attic you never rent,’ Emma said pointedly, and began to open her purse.

Gertrude Daniel, widow woman and childless, was not as surly as she appeared on the surface. In fact, her dour manner and grim face actually belied a rather kind heart and a pithy sense of humour. However, she had the strongest desire to close the door in the girl’s face. She wasn’t interested in the money. And she didn’t like women boarders. Troublemakers, they were. Yet there was something about this particular girl that held her attention, and she had said she was married. Involuntarily, and to her enormous astonishment, she found herself saying, ‘We’d best go inside. I don’t want ter be discussing this on the front steps, with all the neighbours watching from behind their blinking curtains. Not that I can rent yer the attic, mind yer. But perhaps I can suggest another place yer can try.’

With this statement she opened the door wider and admitted Emma into the tiny hall and led the way to the front parlour. Gertrude Daniel was now considerably confused. She did not know for the life of her why she had let the girl into the house. Broken her own rule, she had. Her husband, Bert, had run off with their woman boarder years before. Still, Bert was kicking up daisies now. Nevertheless, she had never rented a room to a woman since then, and she had no intention of doing so now.

The front parlour was a shrine to Victorian bad taste. It was bursting with black horsehair sofas and chairs and mahogany whatnots. Purple chenille cloths covered a table, a piano, and a large stand. There were potted aspidistras on various other surfaces not crowded with bric-à-brac and the most revolting copies of famous oil paintings virtually jumped off the walls, which in turn were covered with bright red flocked-velvet wallpaper that stung the eyes.

‘Sit down, then,’ said Mrs Daniel, her voice still harsh.

Emma placed the suitcase on the violent red-and-purple Turkey carpet, and perched on the edge of a horsehair chair, clutching her bag. She was desperately trying to think of something infinitely more persuasive and ingratiating to say, when Mrs Daniel cut into her thoughts.

‘This is the best parlour,’ said the landlady, preening. ‘Nice, isn’t it?’

‘Oh, yes, indeed. It’s beautiful,’ responded Emma swiftly, adopting her most sincere tone, whilst thinking how horrid it was.

‘Do yer really like it?’ asked Mrs Daniel, her voice suddenly an octave gentler.

‘I do! Very much.’ Emma glanced around. ‘Why, it’s one of the most elegant rooms I’ve ever seen. It’s superb. You have excellent taste, Mrs Daniel,’ gushed Emma, remembering words she had heard Olivia Wainright use so often in the past. She bestowed a glowing and admiring smile on Mrs Daniel.

‘Well, fancy that. Thank yer very much.’ Mrs Daniel was inordinately proud of her front parlour and for the first time her face softened.

Emma did not fail to notice this and grasped the opportunity. She opened her bag deliberately. ‘Mrs Daniel, won’t you rent me the attic, please? I said I would pay in advance. If you’re worried about the money I-’

‘No, that’s not it,’ interjected Mrs Daniel. ‘If Rosie recommended yer, I knows yer all right for the brass-’ Gertrude Daniel now hesitated, her eyes resting appraisingly on Emma. She had been scrutinizing her from the moment she had opened the door. Like Rosie earlier, she had noticed the girl’s clothes at once. The frock was a bit dated, but good. She had also become increasingly aware of the girl’s manners, her air of rectitude and refinement, her cultivated voice. This is Quality, she thought, and before she could stop herself, she said, ‘Well, I don’t know whether me second attic would be suitable for yer, seeing as how yer such a fine young lady. But, since yer’ve nowhere ter go at the minute, I’ll show it ter yer. Mind yer, it can only be for a few weeks.’

Emma wanted to fling her arms around the woman’s neck from sheer relief, but she kept herself perfectly still. ‘That is very kind of you, Mrs Daniel. I do appreciate it,’ she said in her most dignified voice, imitating Olivia Wainright yet again.

‘Let’s go up, then,’ said the landlady, rising. She turned and threw Emma a quizzical look, eyebrows arched. ‘And how come a fine young lady like thee knows Rosie at the Mucky Duck?’ she asked, suddenly puzzled by the odd association.

Stick to the truth, such as it is, a small voice warned Emma. She said, without the slightest hesitation, ‘A workman, who used to come to Grandmother’s to do repairs to the house, knew she was not long for this world. I had explained to him I hoped to come to Leeds one day, to make a home for Winston, that’s my dear husband, and myself, and perhaps find work in one of the shops. He was a friendly sort and he told me to visit Rosie when I did come to Leeds. He felt she would be helpful.’

Gertrude Daniel had listened attentively, assessing the girl’s story. She spoke so sincerely and with such directness it was certainly a truthful statement. And it did make sense. She nodded, satisfied the girl was above board. ‘Yes, I understand. And Rosie’s a good lass. Help anybody, she would that. Providing they was worthy like.’ She nodded again and motioned for Emma to follow her.

The attic was indeed small, but it was neatly furnished with a few simple pieces, including a single bed, a wardrobe, a washstand under the tiny window in the eaves, a chest, a chair, and a small table. It was also spotlessly clean. Emma could see that from the most cursory of glances. ‘I’ll take it,’ she said.

‘It’s three shillings a week,’ intoned Mrs Daniel defensively. ‘It might seem a lot, but it’s the fairest price I can give yer.’

‘Yes, it is fair,’ Emma agreed, and opened her reticule. She counted out a month’s rent. She wanted to be certain she had a roof over her head until Blackie returned to Leeds.

Mrs Daniel looked at the money Emma had placed on the table. She saw immediately that the girl had paid a full month in advance. She was not sure she wanted her here in the house for that length of time. It was almost against her volition that she picked up the twelve shillings and pocketed them. ‘Thank yer. I’ll go and get yer case.’

‘Oh, please, don’t bother. I’ll bring it up-’ Emma began.

‘No trouble,’ said Mrs Daniel, already thumping down the stairs. She returned almost immediately with the suitcase and placed it inside the attic. She had recognized that it was made of real leather and, in fact, she had examined it carefully and another thought had struck her as she had climbed the stairs.

Now she fixed Emma with a fierce stare and said, ‘There’s one other thing I forgot ter tell yer. Since I can only manage ter take care of the two gentlemen’s rooms, yer’ll have ter make yer own bed and clean the attic.’ Her eyes swept over Emma standing in front of her, so tall and beautiful and refined in appearance. Her eyes narrowed. ‘Yer looks ter me like yer’ve led a lady’s life, an easy life, since the day yer was born, if yer don’t mind me saying so. Do yer knows how ter do housework?’

Emma kept her face straight. ‘I can easily learn,’ she remarked, not trusting herself to say another word for fear of laughter breaking loose.

‘I’m glad ter hear that,’ said the landlady bluntly. ‘And by the by, I don’t provide grub, yer knows. Not for only three shillings a week, prices being what they are these days.’ Mrs Daniel continued to study the silent girl who was surrounded by an aura of calm and dignity and, for some reason she could not fathom, she added, ‘But yer can use me kitchen if yer wants, as long as yer clean up after yerself. And I’ll find a spot in one of me cupboards, so yer can store yer groceries if yer wants.’

‘Thank you,’ said Emma, almost choking with the suppressed laughter.

‘Well then, I’ll leave yer be, Mrs Harte, so yer can unpack.’ Mrs Daniel nodded more cordially and closed the door behind her.

Emma pressed her hand to her mouth, listening to Mrs Daniel’s thudding footsteps retreating until they finally ceased. She flew across the attic to the bed and pushed her face into the pillow, now permitting herself to laugh unchecked, until the tears rolled down her cheeks. Do I know how to do housework! she kept thinking, and the peals of laughter would start all over again. But eventually her merriment subsided and she sat up, wiping her eyes. She pulled off her crocheted gloves. She looked down at her hands and grinned with amusement. They might not be as work-roughened red as they used to be, but they were hardly the hands of a lady. Not yet. It’s a good thing I kept my gloves on all day, she thought, or my hands would have probably given me away.

Now Emma stood up and walked over to the washstand. She stared at her reflection in the swingback mirror. The black dress and the cream bonnet were discards from Olivia Wainright’s wardrobe and their quality was unmistakable. Her punctilious mimicry of Olivia’s voice had not been difficult to accomplish, once she had commenced. In point of fact, speaking in a genteel fashion had come quite naturally to her, for she had a good ear and had practised with Edwin. The tinker and his gypsy wife, Rosie, and Mrs Daniel all believed her to be a fine young lady of Quality, albeit a trifle impoverished. And it was no accident. This was the precise impression she had strived to create, had hoped to establish immediately.

Before leaving Fairley, Emma had determined to start out in Leeds as she intended to continue-as a young lady who would become a grand lady. And a rich one. She smiled again, but now the smile was cynical and her eyes, turning dark with calculation, seemed, for a moment, as hard as the emeralds they so strikingly resembled. She would show the Fairleys but she could not dwell on that now. Her time was precious and must be planned with exactitude and used to the fullest. Every minute must be made to count. She would work eighteen hours a day, seven days a week, if necessary, to achieve her goal-to become somebody. To become a woman of substance.

Abruptly she turned away from the mirror, untied her bonnet, placed it on the chest, and hurried to the bed. Emma had such an abhorrence of dirt it was almost an obsession, and whilst the room itself appeared to be meticulously clean, she was impelled to examine the bed linen. The quilt was old but not badly worn. She pulled it off and looked at the sheets with her keen eyes. They were not new; in fact, they were neatly darned in places, but they were spotless and freshly laundered. To pacify herself completely, she stripped the bed down to the mattress, scrutinized it closely, turned it over, and with a sigh of satisfaction she remade the bed swiftly and with her usual expertise.

As tired as she was, she unpacked her suitcase and put her clothes neatly away in the wardrobe and the chest. In the bottom drawer of the chest she found two clean face towels. As she took them out her eyes lighted on several books lying in the drawer. Her curiosity aroused, she picked one up. It was a volume of poems by William Blake, bound in dark red leather and beautifully illustrated with engravings. She opened it and looked at the flyleaf. Slowly she read out loud, ‘Albert H. Daniel. His book.’ She put it back and regarded the other volumes, also expensively bound. Her mouth formed the unfamiliar names: ‘Spinoza. Plato. Aristotle.’ She returned them carefully to the drawer, wondering who Albert H. Daniel was, and thinking how much Frank would love to get his hands on books like these.

Frank. Little Frankie. She caught her breath and sat down heavily on the chair, her heart beating rapidly. She thought of her father and she was filled with sorrow tinged with a deep yearning, and then a feeling of guilt flooded through her, leaving her weak and vitiated. She sagged against the back of the chair. That morning she had left him a note, telling him she had gone to Bradford to look for a better position in one of the big mansions. She had explained she had a few savings to keep herself for several weeks. She had urged him not to worry and had promised to return quickly, if she did not find a suitable post, adding that should she be fortunate enough to secure a good place she would write to him with her address.

And what will I write? she asked herself worriedly. She did not know. And she had more important things to think about for the next few days. Survival. That above all else.

TWENTY-EIGHT

Emma had been in Leeds for almost a week and so far had been unable to find work. For the past four days she had diligently visited every shop in Briggate and the adjoining streets, seeking any kind of position, prepared to take even the most menial. But to her growing dismay and alarm there were no openings at all. Doggedly, from early morning until dusk, she tramped the pavements, those pavements Blackie had said were paved with gold, but which seemed to her to get harder and dustier by the minute.

In these four days Emma had come to know the central areas of the city well, for she had a remarkable memory and a good sense of direction. In spite of an occasional attack of severe anxiety that would momentarily hold her in its grip, she found Leeds exciting, thrilling, in fact. She had also discovered, much to her own astonishment, that she had no fear of this enormous metropolis, so accurately described to her by Blackie well over a year ago. The great buildings, awesome in their incredible proportions, had seemed slightly overpowering on Monday morning when she had valiantly set out from Mrs Daniel’s boarding-house, intent and relentless in her determination to secure a job. But she had quickly adjusted to the surroundings, which might easily have struck terror in one of weaker character, for Emma saw those immense structures for what they truly were: institutions of industry and progress, symbols of money and, inevitably, of power. And her staunch heart invariably quickened at the opportunities they offered, and her burning ambition was reinforced in her imaginative and optimistic mind, for Emma truly believed anything was possible.

The stores and factories, warehouses and iron foundries, printing works and office buildings towering above her, grim of architecture and pitted and blackened by the city’s dirt, reminded her, in a curious way, of the moors, for these monoliths to commerce were just as implacable and indomitable and everlasting. As she had drawn an inexplicable and uncommon strength from those wild hills, so now she drew encouragement and hope from the soaring edifices starkly outlined against the skyline of Leeds, which was the fifth largest city in England. Instinctively she recognized that here her future lay. In her youthfulness, she was determined it would be one of untold wealth, plus that irresistible power she longed so desperately to seize and hold for ever in her own small but tenacious hands.

This morning as she trudged along, Emma unexpectedly found herself in front of Leeds Town Hall and stopped to stare at it, gasping at its austere grandeur. Many wide steps led up to the imposing south façade, where four giant-sized white stone lions guarded its portals in front of Corinthian columns that floated up to dizzying heights. It was a square building, surmounted by a most amazing tower supported by additional columns echoing those on the south facade. There were clocks on four sides and the tower itself was topped by a strange bold cupola. It was a massive building of great weightiness, black and Victorian, and Gothic in its inspiration, yet it was not ugly. Emma decided it had a handsome and even graceful exterior and it was undoubtedly the most astounding landmark she had seen in Leeds so far. As she gaped at it, her eyes flaring open with wonder, it was not possible for Emma to know that its architect, Cuthbert Broderick, had also been in love with money and power, and his Town Hall, opened by Queen Victoria in 1858, had been the ultimate expression of that love. However, with her rare perception, Emma intuitively understood it was a personification of all the city stood for. As she continued to regard the Town Hall a most vivid and compelling thought flitted into her mind: This city can either conquer you, or you can conquer it. With her usual self-confidence she decided at once, and with no hesitation whatsoever, that it would be the latter.

Emma walked away from the Town Hall, glancing up at other structures and thinking: They are only buildings after all, filled with people just like you. She immediately corrected herself. No, not like you, Emma Harte. You are different. And you will be very different. You will be somebody of importance one day, and so fervently did she believe this it sustained her, fortified her courage, and spurred her on.

She ventured into a few more stores, only to be told the same thing time and again-no vacancies. Sighing to herself, she walked along Boar Lane, occasionally pausing to gaze into some of the windows, continually fascinated by the array of finery on display: dresses and bonnets, shoes, reticules and jewellery, furniture and ornaments, and so many other necessities as well as luxuries. And as she viewed these elegant establishments, her Plan with a capital P to make her fortune began to evolve. Always a potent idea, it had hitherto been vague, nebulous, undefined. Now suddenly she knew with great certainty what she would eventually do-what the Plan with a capital P would be. She would have a shop. Her own shop. A shop selling those essentials which people needed in their daily lives. That was it. Trade! She would go into trade. Obviously it would have to be a small shop at first. But it would grow. She would ensure that. She became excited. She would have more than one shop, two, maybe three, and she would be rich. Buoyed up by this idea, she increased her pace, propelled by her decision. Her perspicacious, inventive, and fertile brain raced, planning and scheming for the future tirelessly, as it always would.

Leeds was then, and still is, a lusty and vital city, and the streets on this busy Friday were, as usual, crowded with people rushing about their business. Tram-cars rumbled out from the Corn Exchange to all parts of the town and outlying districts. Fine carriages with prancing horses carried elegant ladies and gentlemen of distinction to their destinations. Prosperity, that sense of self-help and independence, nonconformity, hardheaded Yorkshire shrewdness and industriousness, were endemic, were communicated most vibrantly to Emma, so that she was instantly infected. And the rhythm and power of the city only served to consolidate and buttress these very same characteristics so intrinsic in her, for with her energy, tenacity, and zest, her obstinate will and driving ambition, she was, without knowing it, the very embodiment of Leeds. This was undoubtedly the place for her. She had always felt that to be true and now she was absolutely convinced.

She made her way decisively to Leeds Market in Kirkgate, an enormous, sprawling covered hall composed of an incredible conglomeration of stalls selling all manner of merchandise imaginable-pots and pans, kitchen utensils, china, fabrics, clothes, foodstuffs to be bought and taken home or eaten there, including jellied eels, meat pies, mussels, cockles, cartloads of fruit, fancy cakes, and toffee apples. She stopped at the Marks and Spencer Penny Bazaar, her attention riveted on the sign: Don’t ask the price, it’s a penny! Her eyes roved over the goods on display, so easy to view, open to inspection, so well organized in categories and so cheaply priced. She tucked the information at the back of her mind, her eyes keenly thoughtful. The idea of this Penny Bazaar is simple, yet it is exceedingly clever, she said to herself. Emma lingered for a moment longer, inspecting the goods, which included almost everything from wax candles and cleaning products to toys, stationery, and haberdashery, and then, still reflecting about the bazaar, she moved on. It was well turned two o’clock and she was conscious of a growing hunger gnawing at her. She bought a plate of winkles and mussels from the fishman’s stall, lavished them with vinegar and pepper, ate them with her fingers, dried her hands on her handkerchief, and set out for North Street, where the tailoring shops were located. That morning one of the salesgirls in a dress shop in Thornton’s Arcade had suggested she try her luck there. ‘But go when it’s daylight. It’s a bit of a tough neighbourhood,’ the girl had cautioned.

It was a boiling hot day. The sky was sullen and there seemed to be no air in the muggy, crowded streets. Emma fanned her face and opened the collar of her green cotton dress, feeling hot and overcome by the intense heat bouncing up in waves from the pavement. She leaned against a building in the shade, and when she was a little cooler she set out again. She had to find a job to support herself until the baby was born. After that she would work night and day if necessary, to get the money for the first shop. She smiled and with a degree of unfamiliar exultation. Her tired feet were forgotten, the exhaustion dissipated, and she stepped out surely and with confidence, secure in the knowledge that she would succeed. She had no alternative. She could not afford to fail.

Before long, following the salesgirl’s instructions, she was entering North Street. The tailoring shops, in reality small factories, were not too difficult to find, their names being clearly indicated on the outside. Three sorties into three shops and three turndowns. ‘Try Cohen’s,’ one of the men in the last workshop called after her. ‘It’s in a side alley, off the top of North Street.’ Emma thanked him and left. She found Cohen’s within minutes, but again was told, ‘Sorry, luv, no openings.’ She paused at the end of this alley and looked back down North Street. She decided to keep walking straight ahead until she came to York Road. It was now getting late and she felt it would be wiser to return to Mrs Daniel’s house as quickly as possible. She would rest tonight and start all over again tomorrow, looking for that job which was so crucial.

Panting, Emma continued up the street, which was rather steeply built. She was almost at the top when she felt something sharp strike her shoulder blade and a stone dropped at her feet. She turned swiftly, startled. Further down the street two scruffy-looking youths were grinning at her inanely. She shook her fist at them. ‘Wicked boys!’ she shouted. They laughed derisively and picked up handfuls of stones. Stiffening, Emma was poised to flee, but she instantly realized that the stones were not intended for her, were not being aimed in her direction. To Emma’s immense horror she saw the boys bombarding a middle-aged man who had slipped and fallen. He attempted to rise, but stumbled, and then under the onslaught he huddled against the wall of a building, making a vain effort to shield his face. The louts were whooping and yelling and pitching stones furiously and in an unending stream. The man’s parcel had rolled away, his spectacles were on the ground, and Emma could see that his cheek was bloodied where it had been struck by one of the stones.

Emma was outraged and revolted by this despicable display of needless cruelty and she leapt forward and ran down the street, her anger a raging force within her, and her face was grim and unremitting.

‘Get going or I’ll fetch a bobby!’ she yelled, shaking her fist again. She was totally without fear in her fury. ‘Little hooligans!’ she continued, her voice rising sharply. ‘Go on, get off with you, or I will fetch a policeman! The law will know how to deal with the likes of you, and it won’t be very kindly.’

The two boys laughed at her insolently and stuck out their tongues, making ugly grimaces and shouting foul words, but at least their attention was diverted from the man. Emma, who was dauntless at all times was now so completely enraged she was invincible. She picked up a rock and said threateningly, ‘How about a bit of your own medicine?’ She raised her arm and was about to hurl the rock when to her surprise, and considerable relief, the boys backed off, thumbing their noses at her as they slunk away, their vile curses echoing in the air. Emma ran across to the man, who was struggling to his knees. She took hold of his arm reassuringly and helped him up. He was a small, spry man, sturdily built and wiry. He had wavy black hair greying at the temples and receding on top, sharply defined features, and bright black eyes.

Compassion had eradicated her grim expression and Emma said with concern, ‘Are you hurt, sir?’

He shook his head, pulled a handkerchief from his pocket, and wiped the blood from his grazed cheek. ‘No, I am not hurt,’ he answered, blinking. ‘Thank you, young lady. You have been very kind.’ He blinked again and peered hard at the ground. ‘Do you see my spectacles? They fell off in this unfortunate little skirmish.’

Emma found his glasses, examined them carefully, and handed them to him. ‘Well, at least they’re not broken,’ she informed him with an encouraging smile.

The man thanked her and put on his spectacles. ‘There, that is much better. Now I can see,’ he said.

Emma bent down and picked up his parcel, actually a large paper bag. A loaf of bread had fallen out of it and rolled in the dirt. Emma held it away from her and blew on it, and tried to clean it with her hands, dusting off the dirt. ‘It’s not too grimy,’ she explained, putting the loaf into the paper bag, which contained a number of other items, and giving it to him.

The man had retrieved a small black skullcap which he placed on his head and now he regarded Emma thoughtfully and with increasing interest. His voice was full of gratitude as he said, ‘Thank you once again, young lady. It was brave of you to come to my defence. To my rescue.’ He smiled and his eyes shone with appreciation. ‘Not many men would intervene in these parts, let alone a young lady like you. Yes, indeed, you are of the good heart and the great courage. Quite a remarkable feat you performed. Very commendable!’ He gazed at her with undisguised admiration, not a little impressed.

Even though the man spoke the most precise English and enunciated his words clearly, Emma detected a slight accent she could not place. He must certainly be from foreign parts, she decided, and then said, with a frown, ‘Why were those horrid boys throwing stones at you?’

‘Because I am a Jew.’

Emma was not actually sure what a Jew was but, always reluctant to display her ignorance on any matter, she chose to disregard his explanation, repeating again, ‘But why would that make them want to throw stones at you?’

The man returned her questioning look steadily. ‘Because people are always afraid of what they do not know, what they do not understand, the unfamiliar or the different, and that fear invariably turns to hate. Unreasoned hatred that makes no sense. In these parts the Jews are hated and defiled.’ He shook his head. ‘Ah, the human condition is strange, is it not? There are some people who hate for no reason at all. They just simply hate. They do not realize that their unjustified hatred inevitably turns inward to destroy them. Yes, it is self-destructive in the long run.’

His words, spoken so sadly and without rancour, pierced Emma’s brain and touched her so profoundly she felt a sharp stab of pain near her heart. Was her hatred for Edwin wrong? No, a small voice insisted. It is not unreasoned hatred, the kind this man speaks about. You have every reason to feel the way you do. Edwin Fairley was treacherous and he betrayed you. She cleared her throat and touched the man’s arm lightly. ‘I am sorry people hate you and try to hurt you. How terrible for you to have to live with such-such-’ She stopped, searching for the right word.

‘Persecution,’ the man volunteered. His dark eyes were clouded briefly by a haunting sorrow that was ancient, and then a faint and rueful smile touched his generous mouth. ‘Ah, but then this little flurry was nothing in comparison to some of the debacles that occur. When the roughs and toughs really run amok they become excessively violent. Unmerciful. Attacking us and our homes. We suffer not only sneers, but blows and broken windows and many cruelties.’ He shook his head wearily and then his face brightened. ‘But then, these are not your problems, young lady. I must not burden you with them.’

Emma was aghast and perturbed by the things he had said and she was also baffled by his oddly calm acceptance of such a terrible situation. ‘But can’t the bobbies-the police-do anything to stop it?’ she cried, her voice unaccustomedly harsh with anger.

The man smiled wryly. ‘Not really. Occasionally they try to stop it, but mostly they turn a blind eye. Leeds is not such a law-abiding city in this day and age. We fend for ourselves, as best we can. Keep to ourselves. Go about our business quietly. Avoid confrontations that could easily provoke dangerous incidents.’ He was becoming patently aware of the growing expression of horror in the girl’s eyes and also of the bewilderment etched on her face, and with sudden insight he said, ‘You do not know what a Jew is, young lady, do you?’

‘Not exactly,’ Emma began, and hesitated self-consciously, acutely ashamed of seeming so uninformed.

Observing her embarrassment, the man said softly, ‘Would you like to know?’

‘Yes, please. I like to know of many things.’

‘Then I shall tell you,’ he announced with a gentle smile. ‘The Jews are a people descended from the Hebrews and the Israelites, from the tribes of Israel. Our religion is called Judaism. It is founded on the Old Testament and the Torah both.’ Emma was listening intently and the man beheld the quickening interest on her face, the intelligence in her fine eyes. He was also fully conscious of her sympathetic attitude and so he continued patiently, ‘Do you know your Bible, young lady?’

‘Some of it,’ said Emma.

‘Then you have perhaps read the Book of Exodus. You certainly must know the Ten Commandments?’ She nodded affirmatively, and he expounded further: ‘The Ten Commandments were given to our people by Moses, when he led us out of Egypt and created the Jewish nation. Christianity itself is based on Judaism. Did you not know that?’

Although she loathed to appear illiterate, Emma had to say in all truthfulness, ‘No, I didn’t.’

The man’s bright black eyes searched hers thoughtfully. ‘Jesus Christ was a Jew and Jesus, too, was persecuted.’ He sighed and it was a long, wearisome sigh. ‘I suppose we Jews seem strange to some people, because our customs and dietary laws and form of worship are not the same as the Gentile ways.’ He smiled to himself and remarked so softly it was practically a whisper, ‘But perhaps we are not so different after all, when you stop to think.’

‘Of course you are not! But people can be stupid and ignorant,’ Emma exclaimed with some vehemence, recognizing the sense of what he said, and instantly comparing the rabid class differences in England that also bred cruelty and terrible inequities. She gave him a swift look. ‘So you come from the land of the Jews, do you sir?’ she asked, thinking of the accent that tinged his speech.

‘No, I do not. You see, the Jews scattered throughout the world over the centuries. To Spain, Germany, Russia, Poland, and many other countries. I myself come from Kiev, in Russia. Most of the Jews in Leeds also come from Russia, or from Poland. We came here to escape the terror and harassment of the pogroms directed against us. I had my baptism of fire in my own country and so, as difficult as things here can be sometimes, they are not as terrible as they were in Russia. It is good to be in England. We have freedom here, thank God.’

The man was mindful of her listening to his recital so seriously and with infinite patience and another thought struck him. ‘You cannot be from Leeds, or you would know that there are many Jewish immigrants such as myself living here, and that we are despised by most.’

‘I didn’t know,’ said Emma, adding, ‘I come from Ripon.’

‘Ah, from the rural area. That explains it!’ He chuckled and his sad eyes unexpectedly twinkled. ‘Well, young lady, I will not detain you any longer with my discourse on the Jews. My most grateful thanks again to you. And may the good Lord bless and protect you all of the days of your life.’

Emma flinched inside at this reference to the God she no longer acknowledged or believed in but, knowing the man meant well, she returned his friendly smile. ‘It was nothing. Really it wasn’t. I was glad to help you, sir.’

The man inclined his head courteously and started to walk away. However, after only a few steps he faltered and staggered against the wall, clutching his chest. Emma ran to him immediately. ‘Are you all right?’ She noticed his face was now as white as cotton, and drawn, and his lips were faintly blue and perspiration had broken out on his forehead.

‘Yes, I am perfectly well,’ he answered in a strangled voice, struggling for breath. After a moment he whispered, ‘It was only a twinge. The indigestion maybe.’

Emma did not like the look of him. He appeared to be quite ill and in considerable discomfort. ‘Do you live far away from here?’ she asked urgently. ‘I will take you to your home.’

‘No! No! You have already done enough for me. Please. Please. I am all right. Do not worry yourself.’

‘Where do you live?’ Emma insisted firmly.

‘In Imperial Street.’ He could not resist smiling through his pain. ‘A most unfortunate name for that poor little street, considering it is hardly royal in any sense of that word. It’s located in the Leylands, about ten minutes away from here.’

Emma’s heart dropped at the mention of this area, since she had heard it was dangerous, the ghetto, but nevertheless, she kept her face calm and endeavoured to appear untroubled. ‘Come along! I shall take you home. I don’t think you are well at all, and besides, you might need me to protect you against another assault,’ she pointed out. The man was utterly amazed at her consideration and her willingness to assist him yet again, and not wanting to be a nuisance, he tried hard to dissuade her, but in spite of his protestations Emma took command purposefully. Clutching her reticule tightly, she relieved him of his parcel, gripped his arm, and together they walked slowly up the street.

The man’s acute chest pains were diminishing and as his breathing improved he began to feel better. He scrutinized the girl who was being so solicitous of him, helping him along so generously. Such kindness from a stranger he had never received. He coughed, pushing down the rush of emotion, saying quietly, ‘You are being most thoughtful and kind. I do appreciate it.’ He stopped, turned to her, and thrust out his hand. ‘My name is Abraham Kallinski. May I have the honour of knowing yours?’

Emma tucked the parcel under her arm and took his hand. His grip was firm. ‘It’s Emma Harte.’ He noticed the silver ring on her left hand. ‘Mrs Harte, I assume?’ Emma nodded, but did not elucidate. Being a courteous and civilized man, Abraham Kallinski respected the privacy of others and he therefore refrained from asking any more questions.

They walked at a steady, even pace, Emma supporting Abraham Kallinski under his elbow, and as they walked he told her more about himself, for he was gregarious, an outgoing and articulate individual. Emma with her inquiring mind and fierce desire to learn, listened alertly, giving him her full attention. She soon discovered he had left Kiev in 1880, making his way to Rotterdam and thence to Hull, Yorkshire’s greatest seaport. ‘Like many of the other Jews from Russia and Poland, I came to Leeds intending to go to Liverpool and from there across to America,’ he explained. ‘However, I had to stay in Leeds for a period, to make the money for my ticket to America. Where Jews are, other Jews must go, and when I arrived I came immediately to the Leylands, where most of the Jewish immigrants live, seeking a Landsmann, that is, a man from my own country who spoke my language. I found work easily, for there is kinship and charity amongst Jews. We try to help each other.’ He laughed as he reminisced. ‘Ach, but I was young then. Twenty years old. When I was twenty-one I had the good fortune to meet the young lady who was to become my wife. She was born in Leeds. Her parents had fled Russia years before. And so, Mrs Harte, I stayed in Leeds. I never did go to America in the end. Well, here we are!’ he gestured to the surroundings. ‘This is where I have lived for the past twenty-five years, although not always in the same house.’

Emma looked about, her eyes darting from side to side with unconcealed curiosity as they entered the Leylands. It was a huddle of mean streets, dark courtyards, and sly alleys, the houses clustered together as if seeking protection from each other. Emma shuddered inside at the obvious signs of wretchedness and poverty as they wended their way through Byron Street and into the heart of the ghetto. A group of barefooted children in patched clothing were playing in the middle of Imperial Street and several men were hurrying home, their steps purposeful, their heads bent, eyes furtive. They are strange-looking men, Emma thought, with their beards and large round hats and long coats. They are quite different in appearance from Mr Kallinski, who seems so English. Emma smiled at this thought, having just been told he was Russian-born.

Abraham Kallinski stopped in front of a house at the far end of Imperial Street. To Emma’s surprise it was larger and a bit grander than the others and was extremely well kept, with starched white curtains at the windows which were flanked by wooden shutters. ‘This is my home,’ he said, his face suddenly illuminated with such an expression of joy Emma was touched. His shoulders went back and there was pride in his voice.

‘Then you will be all right now,’ said Emma. ‘I enjoyed listening to you, Mr Kallinski. It was very interesting. I do hope you feel better. Goodbye, Mr Kallinski.’ She handed him his parcel, the smile still lingering on her face.

Abraham Kallinski stared at this lovely girl, this Gentile girl, who had been so helpful and who had devoted so much of her time to him and with a compassion that was rare, and he put out his hand and clutched her arm, detaining her. ‘Please, please, come in for a moment. I wish my wife to meet you, Mrs Harte. She will want to thank you. She will be most grateful for the aid you have given me today and so selflessly. Please!’

‘Oh, really Mr Kallinski, that’s not necessary. And I should be getting along.’

‘Please, just for a moment,’ he begged, his eyes soft and imploring. ‘It is hot. You are tired. Let us offer you a little hospitality. A glass of tea perhaps. A short rest.’

Emma did feel tired and thirsty, but she did not wish to intrude. Furthermore, she did not relish the idea of being stranded in the Leylands alone, especially in the late afternoon. ‘Well, I really shouldn’t,’ Emma began, wavering. She was longing for a glass of water.

Aware of her hesitation, Abraham Kallinski was the one who now took charge. He manoeuvred Emma towards the door and opened it. ‘Come. We will go inside,’ he persisted, ‘a little refreshment will indeed fortify you.’

Abraham Kallinski led her inside the house, which opened directly into a large kitchen that also seemed to Emma to be an all-purpose room. The woman standing at the stove turned as the door opened. Her eyes widened. ‘Abraham! Abraham! Whatever has happened to you?’ she cried, rushing across the floor, the spoon she had been using still clutched in her hand. ‘Your clothes are all dirty, and look at your face! Oh, Abraham, you have been hurt!’ She took his arm, her face a picture of distress mingled with fear.

‘Now, Janessa, don’t get excited,’ he said in his most gentle voice and with a tender look, for Abraham adored his wife. ‘I am not hurt. Just a little dishevelled. A small incident, that is all. I stumbled and fell in North Street and two young hooligans threw stones at me. You know how they are.’ He brought Emma forward, his arm under her elbow. ‘This is Mrs Harte, Janessa. Emma Harte. She came to my rescue. Sent the boys scurrying off with their tails between their legs and then she kindly brought me home. She insisted, in fact.’

Janessa Kallinski put down the spoon and grasped both of Emma’s hands in her own, squeezing them tightly. ‘I am delighted to meet you, Mrs Harte. Thank you! Thank you for helping my husband! That was most charitable of you and courageous. You could easily have been hurt yourself.’ She smiled at Emma with genuine gratefulness and went on in a warm tone, ‘Please, come! Sit down. Let me offer you some refreshment. You look tired and hot.’

‘I am happy to meet you, too,’ Emma said politely. ‘And thank you, Mrs Kallinski, I would appreciate a glass of water, please.’ Janessa led Emma to a chair and pressed her into it. ‘The water you can have with pleasure. But also you must take a glass of lemon tea with us. Now, please, rest yourself.’

Mrs Kallinski was back in a second with the water, which Emma accepted eagerly, and she was suddenly quite relieved to be seated after her long day tramping the streets. She had not fully realized just how tired and depleted she was beginning to feel.

Abraham followed his wife to the other side of the kitchen, where she had been preparing the evening meal. He gave her the parcel. ‘Here is the challah, Janessa. I am afraid it fell in the street, when I fell, but I do not think it is damaged.’ His eyes twinkled. ‘Not even bruised.’ He looked at Emma. ‘Please, excuse me for a moment.’ He inclined his head with that grave courtesy of his and went upstairs.

Emma’s eyes scanned the kitchen. It was large and pleasant and more than adequately furnished with a sofa and several comfortable chairs, a sideboard, and a large table surrounded by six chairs. The table was covered with a fresh white cloth that gleamed brightly in the fading afternoon light and was set for four people. The wallpaper was attractive and conservative and the rug on the floor was of good quality, as were the other appointments. Emma now observed Janessa as she made the tea and filled the glasses. She was taller than her husband and slender, with an attractive figure. Her fresh-complexioned face was handsome rather than pretty, wide and Slavic in its features, and her mouth was full and soft. Her glossy straight black hair was pulled back and coiled on her neck and she had large pale blue eyes under well-defined black brows. She wore a black cotton dress and a crisp white apron that added to the rather stately and even regal impression she gave. Emma guessed she must be in her late thirties.

Within minutes Mr Kallinski returned. He had removed the dust from his trousers, changed his jacket, brushed his hair, and attended to his bruised cheek. He washed his hands at the sink and then he spoke to his wife quietly before joining Emma. Janessa followed with the tea on a small tray. She handed a glass to Emma. ‘I know this will revive you more than the water did, Mrs Harte,’ she murmured and sat down opposite Emma.

Emma thanked her and sipped the tea. It was delicious. Lemon-flavoured with a piece of lemon floating in it, and it was sweet and hot. Emma had never had lemon tea before, but she refrained from mentioning this, as always wanting to appear both experienced and a young lady of Quality.

Mrs Kallinski gave her undivided attention to her husband. ‘Are you sure you feel all right, Abraham? No twinges? No pains in your chest again?’ She was unable to conceal her worry.

Mr Kallinski threw Emma a warning glance and said quickly, ‘No! No! Nothing like that, Janessa. Please do not worry. I am completely recovered from the fall.’

Janessa looked doubtful, a frown scoring her brow, but she appeared to accept his statement in good faith. Abraham took a sip of tea and then regarded Emma. ‘Do you live far from the Leylands, Mrs Harte?’

‘Quite a little way. Do you know where the Mucky Duck is in York Road?’ asked Emma. Mr Kallinski nodded. ‘Well, I live about half an hour’s walk from there, at the other end of York Road, in the opposite direction from the Leylands.’

‘Ah, I see,’ responded Mr Kallinski. He peered at the clock. ‘It is getting later than I realized. When my sons return, which should be very soon, I will have them escort you home. It is not safe, this area, for a young lady alone.’

Emma was about to decline this offer, but immediately saw the common sense of it. She did not want to be exposed to danger in the ghetto and the adjoining districts, and so she said, ‘Thank you. I think that would be a good idea.’

‘It is the least we can do,’ interjected Mrs Kallinski. ‘We don’t want your husband worrying about you, now do we?’ Then she continued in her goodhearted way, ‘And no doubt you are anxious to be getting home, to prepare your evening meal.’

Emma cleared her throat, not responding, forever cautious about confiding in strangers, but under Mrs Kallinski’s affable gaze, she found herself saying, ‘No, I don’t have to prepare supper for my husband. He is in the Royal Navy. When he is at sea, as he is at present, I live alone.’

‘Alone!’ cried Mrs Kallinski, her dismay dousing the lambent light in her eyes. ‘Do you not have any family?’ The thought of this young girl being on her own in Leeds appalled Janessa, who came from a large, close-knit, and loving clan who were always there to protect and help each other.

Emma shook her head. ‘No, my husband’s grandmother died recently. We have no one else between us.’ She saw the grieved expression on Mrs Kallinski’s face and remarked hurriedly, ‘Except each other, of course. But I am all right. Really. I live in a nice boarding-house in a decent area, with a good woman, who rents me a room.’

The Kallinskis exchanged swift and percipient glances. Abraham nodded his head in answer to his wife’s unspoken question, which in her usual way she had communicated to him with her expressive eyes. Mrs Kallinski now leaned forward, clasping her hands together, her wide face shining with benevolence. ‘If you do not have to go home immediately, if you have no other pressing reason to leave, will you not stay and partake of our Sabbath dinner with us? It would be our very great pleasure to welcome you.’

‘Oh, no, I couldn’t. Really, I couldn’t,’ Emma protested. ‘It’s very kind of you. But I just couldn’t.’ She flushed, wondering if the Kallinskis thought she had been trying to wangle an invitation to stay. ‘Thank you. It’s very kind of you. But I couldn’t intrude.’

‘Nonsense!’ exclaimed Abraham. ‘You would not be intruding. Good gracious, after what you did for me today!’ He lifted his hands in the air, palms outward, and made several small upward gestures and went on, ‘How can we ever thank you enough? Now, please, stay for the Sabbath dinner. It will be an honour to have you.’ Seeing the baffled look on Emma’s face, he explained, ‘Our Sabbath day is on Saturday. It commences at sundown on Friday, when we always celebrate the beginning of the holy day with the Friday dinner.’

‘I see,’ Emma said. A worried glint crept into her eyes and they wandered to the clock on the mantelpiece. Abraham followed her glance and nodded, understanding at once what was in her mind. ‘Don’t worry! Don’t worry! Our sons will escort you home after supper.’ His voice was reassuring. ‘You will be safe with them, even if it is dark.’

‘But I-’ Emma began.

‘It is settled, Mrs Harte,’ Janessa interrupted graciously yet with an air of decision. ‘You look tired, undoubtedly because of the trouble with those hooligans. The food will nourish you. Give you strength. You will enjoy it.’ She reached over and patted Emma’s arm. ‘We have plenty. More than enough for an extra person, an honoured guest. Please, relax, and when David and Victor arrive they, too, will welcome you. And thank you for assisting their father today. Yes, they will be delighted to have you share our Sabbath dinner.’

Emma gave in under Mrs Kallinski’s persuasive and good-natured pressure. Also, she was feeling hungry again and she had nothing very appetizing to eat at Mrs Daniel’s, and pots bubbling on the stove were emitting deliciously tempting odours. ‘Thank you. I will be happy to join you, as long as it is no trouble.’

The Kallinskis beamed and Janessa leapt up, gliding to the stove to attend to the boiling pans. She spoke to Emma as she peeped at their contents. ‘You have not eaten Jewish food before, I think, but you will like it.’ She turned, the pan lid in her hand, and nodded positively. ‘Yes, I know you will enjoy it. First we will have the chicken soup with matzo balls-those are similar to Yorkshire dumplings but smaller-and then a crisply roasted chicken all golden brown and moist, with carrots and other vegetables from the soup. We will finish with honey cakes and lemon tea. Yes, it is good, you will see-’ Janessa stopped midsentence and swung around. The door had opened, and her face lit up with pleasure and pride as her two sons entered the house. Seeing Emma seated near the fireplace, they both paused and looked at her with interest and considerable surprise.

‘David! Victor! Come, meet our guest. An honoured guest, for she helped your father out of trouble in the most admirable way today. A fine girl,’ said Janessa, plopping the lid back on to the pan. She wiped her hands on a tea towel and hurried over to her two sons, drawing them into the room. ‘Come along, boys, this is Emma Harte. Mrs Harte.’ She led them to Emma, her face radiant. ‘This is David,’ she said, introducing the taller boy, ‘and this is Victor.’ The Kallinski boys shook hands with Emma, extended their greetings, and thanked her for coming to their father’s aid. They crossed the room to the sofa and sat down together.

It was David who addressed Abraham, his eyes narrowing as he noticed the ugly black-and-blue bruise now most obvious on his father’s cheek, which was puffy and swollen. ‘What happened, Father?’ he asked quietly and with deference, but there was a fierce glint in his eyes and he was striving to control his flaring anger. He knew it was the work of the Jewbaiters again.

Slowly Abraham explained about the incident, not leaving out the minutest detail and extolling Emma’s brave participation in the matter in the most glowing terms. As he spoke, Emma looked at the boys with growing interest, endeavouring to evaluate them.

David and Victor Kallinski were as different in every way as two brothers could be. David, who was the elder at nineteen, was tall like his mother and well built. He had been blessed with her lovely blue eyes, although his were much deeper in tone and his face, handsome and open, had a suggestion of her Slavic bone structure in its width and overall shape. He had the same head of black wavy hair his father’s had once been and he had also inherited the older man’s outward-going manner, yet essentially David Kallinski was even more gregarious, vital, and energetic than Abraham. David was a mover, a doer, ambitious, clever and driven. If there was a faint hint of cynicism in his alert blue eyes it was somewhat counteracted by the generosity of his wide mouth and his friendly demeanour. David was intelligent, intuitive, and excessively motivated towards one goal: success. And, as he knew only too well the true nature of man, he therefore lived by one rule and one rule alone-the survival of the fittest. He not only intended to survive, but to survive in style and with wealth.

Victor, who was sixteen, was small, almost birdlike, and in this he resembled his father to some extent. He had his mother’s straight shiny black hair, but otherwise he did not appear to physically favour either of them. His large eyes were soft and hazel in colour and his face was smooth and bland without any emphatic features, but he was pleasant-looking. His sober face mirrored his character, for Victor Kallinski was a gentle and reflective boy; and in one way his temperament was similar to his father’s, in that Victor had, as did Abraham, a great forbearance and a deep understanding of human frailties, an understanding that was mature and remarkable in one so young. He was a thinker and a dreamer, and he had the soul of a poet. Victor was happiest when he was alone reading, or gazing at great paintings in the museum, or listening to the music of Mahler and Beethoven. He was reserved of nature to a point of shyness and not given to conversing easily with anyone, especially strangers. Victor was looking at Emma surreptitiously from under his long dark lashes, a quiet smile playing around his mouth, thinking what a compassionate girl she must be, and how her actions today only reinforced his inherent belief that essentially mankind was good. Like his father, Victor was utterly without bitterness.

David, the bolder and more self-assured of the two brothers, spoke to Emma first. ‘That was very spunky of you, to stand up to those boys and help my father. And you’re not even Jewish, are you?’ he commented with his usual forthrightness. His piercing blue eyes swept over her in a quick, all-encompassing inspection and he was impressed with the image she made, sitting there in the chair, her hands calmly folded in her lap.

‘No, I am not Jewish,’ said Emma. ‘But I fail to see what difference that makes. I would help anyone in distress, and certainly somebody being assaulted the way your father was.’

David nodded. ‘Not many people would, though,’ he remarked succinctly, wondering what a refined girl was doing in the neighbourhood anyway. He opened his mouth to ask, when Janessa said, ‘Mrs Harte, come and wash your hands, before the boys clean up, and then we will eat. It is almost sundown.’ Janessa swept across the floor and set another place for Emma at the table, hovering near it until Emma and then the boys had completed their toilets.

They all stood around the large table, which was beautifully arranged, the four Kallinskis and Emma. ‘Mother will bless the candles first,’ David whispered. Emma stood perfectly still and watched and listened carefully, taking everything in. Janessa lit the two white candles and murmured a prayer over them in a strange language Emma did not understand, then they all sat down, David courteously pulling the chair out for Emma, Victor for his mother. Noting that all of the Kallinskis were bowing their heads, Emma followed suit. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Abraham bless the red wine in a small cup, again in that curious foreign tongue which she did not know was Hebrew. He took a sip of the wine and said another prayer over the twisted loaf of bread she herself had rescued from the street.

‘Father just recited the kiddush and now we can eat, after the breaking of the bread,’ David further informed her. The bread was broken by Abraham Kallinski and passed around, and Janessa brought steaming bowls of soup to the table that smelled delicious, and so the meal commenced. As she ate, Emma became aware of the harmony and immeasurable love that existed in this family. She began to relax, for the atmosphere was warm and congenial and she was made to feel so at ease and so welcome she was overwhelmed with gratitude at one moment, and her throat thickened with unexpected emotion. And she kept thinking: Why are the Jews hated? They are loving and gentle people and kind and considerate. It is despicable the way they are treated. And this was the way Emma Harte was to feel all of her life, staunchly defending her Jewish friends, constantly shocked and grieved by the excesses of naked racism that infected Leeds like the blight for many years.

The roasted chicken, like the soup before it, was cooked to perfection and was delectable, and for the first time since she had left Fairley, Emma felt both nourished and replete. She realized she had eaten very little in the week she had been in Leeds. She decided to correct that, for she was wise enough to understand that she must keep up her strength.

There was much conversation at the table, about many diverse subjects which fascinated Emma, most of it conducted by the garrulous David and his slightly less garrulous father. Janessa would make a quiet comment occasionally and nod in agreement or shake her head at Emma, all the time smiling benignly, content to be in her home with those she loved, basking in the palpable love that flowed around her, and the festive mood of the Friday-evening dinner. Victor hardly volunteered a word, but he smiled sometimes at Emma, his hazel eyes soft and shyly friendly. A short while later, when she served the honey cakes and tea, Janessa looked down at Emma, her blue eyes twinkling. ‘I think you enjoyed our Jewish food, didn’t you, Mrs Harte?’

Emma’s own eyes were dancing. ‘Oh, yes, I did, Mrs Kallinski. It was delicious. And please, call me Emma.’ Her glance swept around the entire table. ‘I would like everyone to call me Emma.’ The Kallinski family nodded in unison and returned her smiles. ‘We would be honoured,’ said Abraham in his gravely courteous way.

They were drinking their tea when David’s eyes swivelled to Emma sitting by his side. Like the others, David had noticed Emma’s well-bred air, her good manners, and the quality of her dress, for even though it was cotton it was well cut. He was curious about her. Now he said, ‘I don’t want to seem nosy or rude, but what on earth were you doing in North Street this afternoon? Thank goodness you were, mind you. But it’s not such a nice area for anyone to be wandering around in.’

Emma returned his piercing glance with one equally brilliant. ‘I was looking for a job,’ she said calmly.

Total silence descended and four pairs of Kallinski eyes centred on Emma. It was Janessa who broke that silence. ‘A girl like you! Looking for work in that terrible district!’ she gasped, utterly thunderstruck.

‘Yes,’ said Emma softly. Since they were all gazing at her in amazement, she felt obliged to explain and she embarked on the same story she had invented for Rosie and repeated to Mrs Daniel, finishing, ‘And in the past week I have been to every fancy store in Leeds, looking for work as a salesgirl without any success. So today I decided to try my luck in North Street, at the tailoring shops. But I didn’t find anything there either. I had just been to Cohen’s and was making my way home when I saw the boys assaulting Mr Kallinski.’

Three pairs of Kallinski eyes immediately swung away from Emma and lighted on Abraham, and again it was Janessa who spoke. ‘Abraham! Abraham! You must do something for Emma.’

‘Of course I must and I will,’ he replied, beaming at Emma sitting next to him. He patted her arm. ‘You do not have to worry about looking further. On Monday morning, at eight o’clock sharp, come to my tailoring shop and I will give you a job, Emma. I am sure we can find something suitable.’ He glanced at David. ‘Don’t you agree, son?’

‘Yes, Dad. We can start Emma off as a buttonholer. That’s not so hard,’ responded David.

Emma was so surprised she was almost rendered speechless, but she quickly found her voice. ‘Why, thank you, Mr Kallinski! That would be wonderful.’ She gave him an intent look. ‘I learn very fast and I will work hard.’ She paused and shook her head. ‘I didn’t know you had a tailoring shop.’

Abraham chuckled. ‘How could you have known? Anyway, it is in Rockingham Street near Camp Road. David will write down the exact address for you. It is not a very large workshop. We have about twenty people. But we do well enough, making up.’

‘What does “making up” mean?’ asked Emma, baffled by this expression but, as always, anxious to clarify anything she did not understand.

Abraham gave her an avuncular smile. ‘Ah, yes, of course you are not familiar with the term, since you do not know the tailoring trade. It means that we do work for larger clothiers, like Barran’s and others, as do most of the Jewish tailoring shops in Leeds. We are an outside contractor.’

‘I see,’ said Emma. ‘So you make suits for the big clothiers and they go and sell them. Am I right?’

‘Not exactly, but I will let David explain. He is the one who lives, breathes, eats, and sleeps the tailoring trade in this family.’

David laughed engagingly. ‘That’s not quite true, Dad.’ He leaned back in his chair and partially turned to Emma. ‘We don’t turn out an entire suit. We “make up” a particular section of a suit, maybe the sleeves, or jacket fronts and lapels, or the jacket backs, or sometimes trousers. We “make up” whatever the big factories decide to send us any given week.’

Emma, alert as usual, said, ‘But why? That seems a funny way to do it. Isn’t it more complicated than just making the whole suit in one place?’

David grinned. ‘No, strangely enough, it isn’t, because it’s very well organized. It’s also cheaper and faster. The big manufacturers can produce more finished suits by utilizing this method. They simply assemble all of the different parts at their own factories. It was an idea conceived by a little Jewish tailor called Herman Friend. It revolutionized the ready-made clothing industry and helped to put Leeds on the map as the biggest centre of ready-made clothing in the world. And the trade is growing more enormous every year.’ An excited gleam entered his eyes. ‘I tell you, Emma, the tailoring trade is going to make Leeds even more famous one day and immensely rich. It is indeed and I intend to be part of it all.’

‘Such ideas he has, this son of mine,’ murmured Abraham, shaking his head wonderingly, a hint of disbelief in his eyes.

Emma was vastly intrigued, as she always was at the mention of money and new ideas. ‘This man, this Herman Friend, where did he get such an idea? Tell me more about him, David.’

‘Who knows what gave him the idea,’ he said with a shrug. ‘But it was certainly an idea that worked. Anyway, Herman Friend had his own little workshop and was “making-up” for the John Barran factory, the first ready-made clothiers to start in Leeds after Singer invented the sewing machine. They’re the biggest, and also non-Jewish, by the way. Friend invented the method of the divisional labour system when he was an outside contractor for Barran’s, dividing the making of one single suit into five or six different operations. This immediately reduced the cost of producing ready-made suits and, as I said before, increased output. It also meant that Barran’s, and the other big clothiers who adopted the system, could sell the suits at cheaper prices. Volume was the key and it put the price of a suit within the reach of the working man. Friend started to give out work to other small Jewish tailoring shops and the whole idea just snowballed.’

Emma said, ‘A simple idea, but like so many simple ideas, it was very clever.’

David nodded his agreement, somewhat taken aback by this observation. He was even further surprised when Emma continued, ‘Like the Marks and Spencer Penny Bazaar in Leeds Market. Now that is also a brilliant idea. Putting all the goods in different sections, showing them off so everyone can see them easily, examine them, and help themselves. And pricing them so cheaply. Don’t you think that is clever, David?’

‘I certainly do!’ He smiled. ‘Did you know that Michael Marks is also a Jewish immigrant who came to Leeds from Poland? He started with that one stall in Leeds Market ten years ago. He recently went into partnership with Tom Spencer and now they have Penny Bazaars all over Leeds, and are expanding to other cities. They’ll be a national chain one day. You’ll see.’

Emma’s eyes were fixed on David, her mouth slightly open with amazement, excitement bringing a flush to her pale face. She was right. Leeds was the place to make a fortune. Now she said, ‘I believe anything is possible, if you have a good idea and are prepared to work hard.’

‘You’re absolutely correct, Emma,’ responded David. He launched into another success story, which Emma ate up.

David and Emma could have talked all night, for they were both bursting with ambition, drive, and, most surprisingly, had an incredible vision quite remarkable for their years; and they intuitively began to recognize this and were drawn to each other instinctively. But Abraham glanced at the clock at this precise moment and said, ‘I think it is time for you boys to escort Emma home. I am enjoying her company, too, but it is getting late and I do not like the idea of you being on the streets when the public houses are turning out. Dangerous, I think.’

‘Yes, I must be getting along,’ Emma said, pushing back her chair. ‘But first I must help Mrs Kallinski to clear the table and wash the dishes.’

‘No, no, that is not necessary, Emma. My husband is right. The boys must take you home immediately. David, don’t forget to write out the address of the workshop for Emma, and then you must leave,’ said Janessa.

Emma thanked the elder Kallinskis for their hospitality and the lovely dinner, and even more profusely for the job, which was so vital to her survival. She promised to be at the workshop on Monday morning at eight o’clock, and carefully tucked the paper into her handbag.

It was a relatively long walk back to Mrs Daniel’s house, but Emma felt safe, flanked on either side by the silent Victor and the voluble David. They did not run into any street gangs, and for Emma the time passed quickly with David chattering about all manner of things, but mostly about the tailoring trade. They insisted on taking her right to Mrs Daniel’s front door. In the gaslight from the streetlamp a few feet away, David and Victor were clearly illuminated. Emma looked from the solemn Victor to the laughing David and thought: They are so different but they are both very genuine. She gave her hand to Victor. ‘Thank you for bringing me home. Goodbye,’ she said.

Victor gripped her hand with firmness. ‘Good night, Emma. And thank you for helping Father. It was good of you.’

‘Yes, it was!’ exclaimed David, who now grasped her hand in his. ‘See you Monday morning, bright and early. Good night, Emma.’

They turned and began to walk away as she fitted the door key into the lock, but David stopped abruptly and ran back. ‘We think alike, Emma,’ he said, his voice vibrating confidently in the stillness. ‘I know we are going to be friends. Good friends.’

Emma’s face was serious and she believed him. She nodded. ‘I think so, too, David.’ He opened the door for her, and when she was safely inside he ran lightly down the steps and raced after Victor, who was waiting for him at the end of the street.

He was not aware of it then, but never had David Kallinski made a more prophetic pronouncement. They were indeed alike, for both were imbued with the will to succeed. And on that hot August night in 1905 a friendship had begun that was to last over half a century. Together they would climb, in their own individualistic ways, struggling up out of grim poverty, fighting all manner of prejudices, reaching for bigger and better things, and in their rising and their reaching they would carry the city with them. They would put their indelible imprint on Leeds, not only in their outstanding achievements as business magnates, but in their vast philanthropies. It was Emma Harte and David Kallinski, plus a handful of other conscientious, driven, and visionary Jews and Gentiles, who were to give birth to a city’s greatness.

TWENTY-NINE

The days slipped into weeks. August became September and then suddenly September had vanished. It was already the middle of October and Blackie had not returned to Leeds.

Emma constantly wondered what was detaining him in Ireland, worrying excessively when she was alone in the solitude of her little attic room, hoping he was not in some kind of trouble. She longed for Blackie to return because he was her closest friend and, although she was not aware of it, because he was associated with her past. Blackie O’Neill was the only emotional link to her background and so to her family, whom she loved and sorely missed. But essentially, the worry she periodically experienced was sincere concern for Blackie’s well-being, rather than her own, for she was not given to self-pity. And she was managing reasonably well by herself. She had her job at Kallinski’s tailoring shop and her room at Mrs Daniel’s house and, tentative and even tenuous as these were, they gave her a certain degree of security that was comforting.

The landlady, growing less fractious and more cordial every day, had announced unexpectedly that Emma could continue to rent the room indefinitely. It had not taken the sharp-eyed Mrs Daniel long to note that Emma was fastidious, honest, and quietly reserved. She kept to herself, merely nodding politely to the two gentlemen boarders when she ran into them in the hall, moving swiftly upstairs to her own room in well-bred dignity. She was not a troublemaker, Gertrude Daniel had decided, and had told Emma, ‘Yer can stay as long as yer want ter, lass. Yer no bother. None at all,’ and with this utterance Mrs Daniel’s dour face had broken into a beaming smile and she had patted Emma’s arm almost affectionately.

Emma was earning enough money at Kallinski’s to keep herself adequately and, most importantly, without having to dip into her precious savings. She was careful with her money to a point of frugality, spending it only for necessities, walking everywhere even when she was dropping from exhaustion and tempted to take a tram-car. But thrifty as she was, she did buy nourishing food. She was sensible enough to recognize she must fortify her strength and preserve her energy at all costs. If she neglected herself she might easily get sick and be unable to work, a thought that filled her with dread. There was the baby to think about, after all.

The job at the little workshop kept her busy from eight in the morning until six, sometimes seven o’clock, at night. Emma actually enjoyed working there and had done so since the first day. Abraham Kallinski ran his Rockingham Street tailoring shop with efficiency, but he was no tyrant, and because he was just, no one ever thought of abusing his kindness. The workers did not have to clock in and there were no stringent rules about talking, or the length of time taken for tea and lunch breaks. The employees were paid by the piece and it was up to them to make a living wage; and providing Abraham met his obligations to the big clothiers on time, he was satisfied, and he did not believe in cracking the whip on principle.

The girls were mostly Gentiles, but all of the men were Jewish. There was a wonderful feeling of camaraderie in the air, with much friendly bantering rising above the clack-clack-clacking of the treadle sewing machines. Emma sat at the long wooden worktable, up to her calves in clippings and bits of padding, working nimbly and at a pace that astounded the most seasoned of the girls. They were a gregarious bunch, all of them Leeds born and bred, blunt, pithily humorous but kindly. They spoke in the odd vernacular particular to Leeds, abbreviating words, slurring others together, dropping h’s and adding them where they should not have been. Emma understood the girls easily enough, for the patois of Leeds was basically a bastardization of the Yorkshire dialect spoken in the rural areas. She herself continued to speak correctly, always conscious of Olivia Wainright’s melodious voice, always parroting it, never permitting herself to fall into the rough speech patterns of her fellow workers. Emma knew that bad habits were easy to acquire and hard to break. At first the girls had teased her about her cultivated voice. ‘Talking like cut glass,’ they called it. Emma simply smiled and took their ribbing in such a good-natured way they soon ceased and accepted her as one of them. But none of the girls at Kallinski’s ever quite became accustomed to her beauty or her air of breeding. They were forever stealing looks at her and they stood in awe of her, although she did not know this.

Abraham kept a watchful eye on Emma, for he would never forget her compassion and rare courage, but he did so without showing her any favouritism, even though he was inordinately fond of her. Emma was always aware of Victor’s hovering presence, particularly when she hit a small problem with her work. Her involvement so preoccupied her she never once noticed the adoration that shone in his gentle eyes whenever they lighted on her. David was her champion. He had taken her under his wing that first Monday morning when he had set her to buttonholing. He was not surprised when she mastered this technique within a few days and became one of the speediest and most adept workers. Conscious of her superior intelligence and her amazing facility for learning with rapidity, he started her cutting sleeves one day when a regular cutter was absent. David had rolled out the long bolt of fine Yorkshire cloth on the wooden trestle table, chalking on the pattern from a paper form and wielding the scissors with a dexterity that was enviable, explaining in detail to Emma as he went along.

Under David’s training Emma soon learned to cut sleeves, lapels, then jacket fronts and backs, and finally trousers, always willing to pitch in and help when they were running behind with orders. By the middle of September she could easily have cut and sewn an entire suit on her own, without assistance from David. Abraham was stunned at her enormous capacity for work and impressed by her quick understanding of all aspects of tailoring. In fact, he was speechless at her skill, her singlemindedness, and her unflagging energy. Victor was silently admiring. David simply grinned like a Cheshire cat. He had perceived the nature of her character at their first meeting, an occasion he would always consider auspicious, if not indeed fortuitous. Emma Harte was a girl who was going places. He would bet his last shilling on that. He had his plans and she was part of them.

Janessa Kallinski continually extended invitations to Friday-night Sabbath dinner, for she had also grown fond of Emma and was as captivated as the rest of the family. Emma regulated her visits scrupulously, displaying an innate sense of social grace. She enjoyed her evenings in this warm and loving Jewish home, but she did not want to take advantage of their hospitality or appear to be forward and opportunistic. And when she did accept an invitation she always arrived with a small gift. A bunch of flowers bought in Leeds Market, a pot of jam she had made in Mrs Daniel’s kitchen, and once a chocolate mousse, painstakingly prepared from Olivia Wainright’s recipe and carried most carefully to the house in the Leylands in one of Mrs Daniel’s best cut-glass bowls. The mousse had been a triumph and had sent the whole of the Kallinski family into gurglings of delight; and they were lavish with their praise of her culinary expertise, which Mrs Daniel had also commented on favourably.

Mostly, however, Emma’s free time was spent alone. She was not always tired at the end of the working day but, since she had no friends in Leeds, other than the Kallinskis, she made her supper in the back kitchen and then retired to her attic. Sometimes she sewed at night, spending endless hours patiently altering the castoffs from Olivia Wainright’s wardrobe. These had been given to her before Mrs Wainright had departed for London, following Adele Fairley’s funeral. If the clothing had seen better days, none of it was so badly worn that it could not be fixed by Emma’s ingenuity and her deftness with a needle. The basic quality and elegance of the clothes was unmistakable, and so she turned frayed cuffs and collars, patched and darned holes, and let out seams. She worked on a grey woollen suit, a red silk dress, various skirts and blouses, and a black woollen coat, as well as the black dress that had been her mother’s, constantly endeavouring to keep her limited wardrobe in the best of condition and neat. She had no intention of buying anything new in the next few years. Occasionally she read the books she had found in the bottom drawer of the chest. She did not always understand the philosophical works, but they intrigued her and she would read sentences over and over again, digesting the words with thoughtfulness, filled with an immense gratification when the true meaning of the books became clear to her. She had a thirst for learning and acquiring knowledge and one of her few purchases had been a dictionary. But her favourite book of all was the volume of William Blake’s poems and she pored over this regularly, reciting the verses aloud, enunciating the difficult words precisely, making a supreme effort to develop and perfect her speaking voice. In point of fact, Emma Harte never wasted a minute of her time, continually striving to better herself.

The first few weeks she had been in Leeds she had lain awake almost every night fretting about the baby. One day it struck her most forcibly that worrying about an event not due to take place until the following March was perfectly ridiculous. Also, it was a waste of time, that most precious of all commodities to Emma. She would think about the baby the day it was born and not before. Then, and only then, would she decide what her next step would be. Emma hoped the baby would be a girl. She was afraid that if it was a boy it would look like Edwin Fairley and that she would hate it for this reason. The poor baby isn’t to blame, she would think, and every day she said to herself: I know it will be a girl, and this invariably cheered her up.

Emma had been to visit Rosie at the Mucky Duck twice, and on the last occasion she had left a note sealed in an envelope for Blackie, telling him where she lived and worked. She had also written to her father. She had told him she had not found a suitable position in Bradford, but that she was staying on in the hopes of doing so. She promised to be in touch soon. The letter had been most purposefully posted in Bradford. Although Emma begrudged spending the money for the railway ticket, she was too terrified to post the letter in Leeds for fear of discovery. And so, with that sense of self-preservation uppermost in her mind, she had trailed all the way to Bradford, posted the letter at the main post office, and taken the next train back to Leeds.

Now, on a Saturday morning in October, Emma sat at the table in the attic penning another note in her meticulously neat handwriting. For obvious reasons, this letter had to be full of lies; lies that at first bothered her enormously, until she told herself they were really white lies; and because they were meant to protect her father from knowing the terrible truth, which would shame him, and were intended to assuage his anxiety, they did not actually count. However, she decided to keep her story as simple as possible.

Emma wrote carefully: Dear Dad: I am sorry I have not written since September. I have been looking hard for work. I am glad to tell you I have obtained a position with…Emma stopped, conjuring up a name that was so common it would therefore be difficult to isolate and trace, continuing: a Mrs John Smith. I am to be her personal maid. We are leaving for London today, returning in one month. When I get back to Bradford I will come and see you. Don’t worry about me, Dad. I am fine. Love to you and Frank and Winston. Always your loving daughter, Emma. She added a postscript. P.S. Here’s a pound to help out. Emma wrapped the pound note inside the letter, put it in the envelope, sealed it firmly, addressed it, and stuck on the stamp.

She hurried to get dressed, selecting the black frock that had been her evening uniform at Fairley Hall and which now boasted a frothy white lace collar and cuffs. She had wondered whether she ought to take her uniforms when she had left Fairley Hall. Wasn’t that stealing? she had asked herself. But in the end she had had no compunction about packing them in Edwin’s suitcase. The Fairleys had had their pound of flesh and the uniforms certainly wouldn’t fit the bovine Annie.

Once she was outside the house Emma’s spirits lifted. It was an Indian-summer day, with a polished blue sky, white candyfloss clouds, and radiant sunshine. It’s a shimmering sort of day, Emma decided, breathing in the fresh air that was balmy for October. She walked smartly to City Square and crossed it to reach City Station, where she bought a ticket for Bradford. Luckily the train was standing on the platform and she boarded it immediately. When the train eventually chugged into Bradford, Emma leapt out of the carriage, dashed to the post office and back to the railway station with such speed she was able to catch the return train to Leeds.

Emma felt easier now that the letter to her father had been mailed, and she relaxed against the carriage seat as the train rumbled along the tracks. She did not have to write to her father again for a month. That gave her sufficient time to think up another story. Although there was no natural deceit in her character, Emma knew she must resort to subterfuge to appease her father, until after the baby was born. He might still worry about her, but not as much as he would if there was total silence on her part. She must be in touch with him on a regular basis and then perhaps he would not attempt to find her. He did not know where to look anyway. He believed her to be in Bradford, and there must be hundreds of Mrs John Smiths in that city. As always, she felt a sharp twinge of guilt when she thought of her father.

The trip to Bradford and back to Leeds had taken several hours and Emma was assailed by hunger pains when she stepped off the train in City Station. In fact, the hunger was so acute it was making her feel dizzy. She went directly to Leeds Market, where she bought herself a large portion of mussels and drowned them in pepper and vinegar, having lately developed a craving for spicy things. When these had been devoured with relish, she went to the pie stand and bought a meat pie, all fluffy, flaky pastry and piping hot and deliciously moist and tender inside. She strolled around the market for a short while, eating the pie unselfconsciously and looking at the diverse stalls, and then she wended her way to Briggate. On Saturday afternoons Emma made a point of wandering around the main streets of Leeds, gazing in the store windows, making mental notes of displays and the type of merchandise on sale. She went into several of the fine shops, eyeing the interior displays and observing what people were buying, conscious of that thrilling sensation growing inside her, as it always did when she entered a shop. She loved the bustle, the bright colours, the array of merchandise and its often ingenious presentation, the clink of the cash registers, the interesting faces of the shoppers, the elegant women in their smart clothes. She could not wait until she had her own shop. Shops, she corrected herself, as she stared at a collection of winter bonnets, none of which was to her taste; nor did she like the way they were presented.

After several hours of browsing, Emma decided she ought to go home. She had mending and other tasks to do and her feet ached. She had barely walked in through the front door when Mrs Daniel was upon her, sweeping down the narrow corridor from the back kitchen. Her eyes glinted sharply in the dim light and she threw Emma a quizzical look as she exclaimed, ‘Yer’ve had a gentleman caller!’

Emma stood stock-still, her heart pounding unreasonably. Her father? Winston? They had somehow managed to find her! Don’t be stupid, she told herself firmly. It was more than likely David Kallinski. He had been once before, delivering a message from his mother, but Mrs Daniel had been out and so she had never met him. Yes, it must have been David, Emma decided. She kept her voice steady, ‘Oh, really. Did he leave his name, Mrs Daniel?’

‘No, but he left yer this.’ Mrs Daniel pulled an envelope out of her apron pocket.

‘Thank you, Mrs Daniel,’ said Emma, placing one foot on the stairs purposefully.

‘Aren’t yer going ter open it, then?’ Mrs Daniel asked, her disappointment registering so apparently Emma was amused.

‘Yes, of course I am,’ Emma replied with a cool smile. She inclined her head to the landlady graciously. ‘Please excuse me, Mrs Daniel.’ Without giving her another glance, Emma mounted the stairs, her heart lifting. She had recognized the handwriting. It was Blackie’s, and she certainly wasn’t going to give Mrs Daniel the satisfaction of seeing her jubilation at receiving a note from a man who was obviously not her ‘husband’ of Royal Navy fame, the much-talked-about Winston.

Once she was in her room, Emma tore open the envelope with trembling fingers, her eyes seeking the signature immediately. It was from Blackie. He would be waiting for her at the Mucky Duck at five o’clock today. Emma dropped on to the bed and leaned her head against the pillow, closing her eyes, filled with the most overwhelming sense of relief and happiness.

At exactly four, when the grandfather clock in the front hall struck the hour, Emma sailed downstairs and out of the house before Mrs Daniel could waylay her with her prying questions and unconcealed curiosity. Outwardly, she was as contained as always, but inside she was bursting with a breathless anticipation at the idea of seeing Blackie O’Neill again. Oh, how she had missed him! It was only now that Emma realized the amount of discipline and self-control she had exercised, so as not to become depressed or feel utterly alone in Leeds, and she was astonished that she had been able to command her emotions so successfully.

So intent was Emma on reaching her destination, so involved was she with these inner thoughts, she was quite oblivious to the heads, both male and female, that turned to look after her as she swept along the pavement, heading for York Road and the Mucky Duck. She cut quite a swath in the grey woollen suit which she had skilfully repaired so that the worn parts would not show. It was of excellent cut and elegant in its basic simplicity. The long skirt was straight to the calf and from there it fell to her ankles in a small flare on either side. Topping the skirt was a tailored jacket, tightly fitted over the bodice, with rounded shoulders and narrow sleeves. Deep revers and a peplum from the waist to just below the hip gave it an undeniable chic not commonly seen in the neighbourhood; it was five years old and dated for London, but not for Leeds, and it was by Worth. With it Emma wore the blue silk blouse discarded long ago by Olivia Wainright, and its dainty white lace collar and cuffs were just visible. She had pinned Blackie’s green-glass brooch on to one of the lapels, but this was her only piece of jewellery, other than her mother’s plain silver ring on the third finger of her left hand. The white crocheted gloves and the black leather reticule with the tortoiseshell frame completed her outfit.

Emma was now five months pregnant. She herself was conscious of a thickening around her waist and hips, but her condition was not yet obvious to anyone else. The suit emphasized her willowy figure and enhanced her natural gracefulness. Her burnished hair, full of golden lights in the late-afternoon sunshine, was swept back from her oval face and brought the striking widow’s peak into focus. That afternoon she had piled those glossy tresses on top of her head in a modified pompadour, experimenting with a style she had not previously worn, and it not only made her appear taller than her five feet six inches but also gave her a sophisticated air. There was a decided spring to her light step. She was feeling revitalized and her exhilaration was apparent to every passer-by.

Emma knew she had set out far too soon. She slowed her pace, not wanting to reach the pub before Blackie did. On arriving in Leeds in August, she had already worked out the story she would tell him. At this time in her life there was little duplicity in Emma. However, now that she was pregnant she was more self-protective than ever and her inbred wariness was increasing daily. The last thing she wanted was her father or Adam Fairley swooping down on her, a situation quite likely to arise if Blackie knew the facts and sprang gallantly to her defence. And so, with a degree of artifice, she had concocted a story within the realm of truth yet deceptive enough to dupe Blackie whilst being eminently plausible. She rehearsed the story as she walked, although she had committed it to memory weeks ago.

A small troop of Salvation Army ladies, resplendent in their long black uniforms, their bonnets bobbing, were marching down York Road from the opposite direction, singing lustily and thumping a drum. Rather than hang around outside and expose herself to the ritualistic Saturday-night dissertation of the evils of drink, Emma went immediately into the public house. She could always chat with Rosie if Blackie was not already there. She pushed open the heavy front doors and moved along the narrow corridor rank with the smell of stale beer and smoke. She paused briefly before going through the inner swinging doors. Blackie had beat her to it. His voice was distinguishable over the hum of the noise inside. Emma stepped through the doors and stood to one side.

There he was in all his glorious Irish splendour, vibrant black curls rippling back from tanned face, black eyes dancing, white teeth flashing between rosy lips, his superb looks prominently highlighted in the glare from the burning gas lamps. The pianist was banging out ‘Danny Boy’, and Blackie stood next to him, erect and proud, one hand on the piano top, his marvellous baritone ringing out above the clink of glasses and the subdued murmur of conversation. Emma put a gloved hand to her mouth to hide the laughter springing automatically to her lips. She had never seen this Blackie O’Neill before. But then she had never seen him in a pub either. What a performance he’s giving, she thought in amazement, mesmerized by his theatrical stance.

In point of fact, Blackie O’Neill would have made a splendid actor. He certainly had all the necessary attributes required for that histrionic art-outstanding looks, natural charm, an instinctive sense of timing, emotional depth, and an animal magnetism that was spellbinding when projected to the fullest, and it was being decidedly projected at this very moment. There was not a little of the ham in Blackie and he was now playing outrageously to the crowd, who were electrified. He had come to the last verse of the old Irish air, and he stepped away from the piano, leaned forward, almost bowing, and then drew himself up to his full height of six feet three inches, expanding his broad chest. One great arm swept out and he finished triumphantly:

‘And I shall hear, though soft ye tread above me,

And all my grave will warmer, sweeter be,

And you will bend and tell me that you love me,

And I shall sleep in peace until ye come to me!’

His voice struck at Emma’s heart as it always did, and as the fading echoes of it washed over her in all-enveloping waves, her throat became tight with that bittersweet sadness she experienced whenever he sang. She blinked and looked around. There wasn’t a dry eye in the place and she saw the flutter of white as handkerchiefs came out to wipe other moist eyes. The crowd was clapping spontaneously and she heard diverse voices shouting out requests: ‘Give us another, Blackie, lad!’…‘How about “The Minstrel Boy”!’…‘Sing us “Cockles and Mussels”, lad!’ Blackie was bowing and grinning and bowing again, obviously enjoying every minute of the approval. He seemed about to oblige with another rendition when he spotted Emma.

‘Later, mates,’ he cried above the din, and crossed the floor in several quick strides, pushing his way through the group surrounding the piano. Emma stood shyly near the door, clutching her reticule. Blackie was towering above her, his eyes sweeping over her in one swift but appraising glance. His surprise at the radical change in her apperance was evident, even though he tried to conceal it. He recovered instantly and said, with his usual enthusiasm, ‘Emma! It’s wonderful to see yer, sure and it is, mavourneen.’

Blackie pulled her into his arms and hugged her. Then he stood her away, as was his habit, still holding her arms and gazing into her upturned face. ‘Why, ye be looking more fetching than I ever did see ye, Emma. And quite the young lady. Yes, indeed!’

Emma laughed. ‘Thank you, Blackie, and it’s lovely to see you, too.’

He grinned at her, his delight as obvious as hers. ‘Come on, mavourneen. Let’s be going into the Saloon Bar. It will be quieter in there, I am thinking, and we can talk better. It is also a more suitable spot for a fine young lady like ye.’ He winked as he said this and asked, ‘And what will ye be having to drink?’

‘A lemonade, please,’ she responded.

‘Wait here,’ Blackie ordered, and headed for the bar. Emma’s eyes followed him. She had not seen him since the spring, almost nine months, and he, too, had changed. He seemed somehow more mature and, in spite of that natural exuberance that always bubbled to the surface, there was an air of containment about him, and she thought she also detected a certain sadness. Rosie, her vast body encased in startling orange satin, was beaming from ear to ear and waving at Emma, who returned her greeting. Blackie was back within seconds, carrying the drinks. ‘Follow me,’ he said, shouldering his way through the throng that filled the main room.

The Saloon Bar was relatively empty and certainly quieter, and Emma at once felt less uncomfortable here than in the public bar. She glanced around curiously. It was quite sedate, in fact rather elegant for a pub. Blackie found them a table in the corner, put down the drinks, pulled out a chair for her with a gentlemanly flourish, and seated himself opposite. He took a sip of the frothing pint and regarded her over the rim of the glass attentively. Then he placed it on the table and, leaning forward, said in a sober tone, ‘And what’s all this about, then? What are ye doing in Leeds? A little snippet like ye. I thought I told ye a long time ago this was no place for ye, until ye were older. Sure and I did, Emma Harte.’

Emma threw him a quick glance. ‘I’m doing all right.’

‘Aye, so I can see, by the looks of ye. But ye might not have been so lucky, I am thinking. Come on, out with it! What made ye leave Fairley?’

Emma was not ready to confide in him just yet and she ignored the question. ‘Yes, I was lucky,’ she conceded and, changing the subject, continued, ‘I didn’t know you would be away. I missed you, Blackie. Why were you in Ireland so long? I thought you were never coming back.’

His face became sorrowful. ‘Ah, mavourneen, mavourneen,’ he said through a deep sigh. ‘It was me good friend Father O’Donovan, who was dying. An old priest I truly loved, who taught me everything I know. That is, what bit of learning I do have. I stayed with him till the end. Sad it was, oh, very sad indeed.’ He shook his head and his Celtic soul seemed to be mourning afresh, for his eyes were dimming at the memory.

Emma stretched out her small hand and patted his arm. ‘I am sorry, Blackie. Really very sorry. I know how upset you must be.’ She was silent for a moment, commiserating with him, and then she murmured softly, ‘So that’s why you stayed in Ireland all these months.’

‘No, mavourneen. Father O’Donovan, God rest his soul, died within a couple of weeks. But I did stay on for a bit of a holiday with me cousins, Michael and Siobhan, who I hadn’t seen in many a year. Then me Uncle Pat did write to me and told me I must get meself back to England quick like. I got back to Leeds yesterday. Naturally, it being Friday night, I came in for a pint. And what a surprise I did get when Rosie gave me ye letter. I was thunderstruck, if the truth be known.’ He looked at her quizzically and finished, ‘Out with it, colleen. Why did ye decide to leave Fairley?’

Emma eyed him a little charily and said quietly, ‘Before I tell you the reason, Blackie, you must promise me something.’

Blackie stared at her, amazed more by the seriousness of her tone rather than her request. ‘And what might that be?’

Emma met his direct gaze calmly. ‘You must promise me you won’t tell my father, or anyone, where I am.’

‘And why all the secrecy?’ Blackie demanded. ‘Does not ye dad know where ye be?’

‘He thinks I’m working in Bradford,’ Emma explained.

‘Ah, Emma, that’s not right. Now why would ye not be telling ye dad where ye are?’

‘Blackie, you haven’t promised me yet,’ she insisted in her coolest voice.

He sighed. ‘All right, then, if that’s the way ye be wanting it. I swear on the heads of the Blessed Saints that I won’t be telling a living soul where ye be.’

‘Thank you, Blackie.’ There was a dignified expression on her face and she was not at all nervous or apprehensive as she said, ‘I had to leave Fairley because I am going to have a baby!’

‘Jaysus!’ Blackie exploded in stunned disbelief. ‘A baby!’ he repeated, mouthing the word as if it were foreign to his tongue.

‘Yes, in March,’ Emma informed him calmly, ‘and I had to leave because the boy, that is the father, well, he let me down.’

‘He did what!’ Blackie bellowed, his face growing scarlet. ‘By God, I’ll thrash the living daylights out of him! I will that. We will go to Fairley tomorrow and see ye dad and his dad. And by God he’ll marry ye if I’ve got to beat him to a pulp to get him to the church!’

‘Hush, Blackie,’ Emma said. She could see he was in the grip of a terrible fury. ‘It’s no use, Blackie. When I told the boy the way it was, he said he would marry me. That I shouldn’t worry. But then do you know what he did, that very night?’

‘No, mavourneen, I cannot be imagining,’ muttered Blackie through clenched teeth. For the first time in his life he felt the desire to kill. The idea that anyone would abuse Emma enraged him to a point of madness.

Emma had been watching Blackie very carefully and she said softly, ‘He did a terrible thing, Blackie. He ran away. To join the Royal Navy. Fancy that!’ Her eyes were large and her voice was low. ‘He took a leaf out of my own brother’s notebook,’ she went on, ‘he copied Winston and did a moonlight flit. Just like that. When he didn’t come to the Hall to see me, as he had promised, I went down to the village to see him. It was then his dad told me that he had run off. He even showed me the note the boy had left.’ She shook her head. ‘What could I do, Blackie? I couldn’t tell his dad. And I certainly couldn’t tell mine. So I ran away to Leeds.’

‘But perhaps ye dad would be understanding-’ Blackie began, endeavouring to keep his voice steady.

‘No, he wouldn’t!’ Emma cried with alarm, her face paling. She had known he might take this attitude and she must convince him she had to stay in Leeds. ‘He would be angry and hurt! It would kill him, coming on top of my mother’s death. I don’t want to take any trouble to my father’s doorstep. It’s better this way.’ Emma now softened her voice. ‘Honestly, Blackie, it is. I know my father. He has a terrible temper and there would be a dreadful scandal in the village. It would ruin my life and the baby’s. And my dad’s, too. It’s best he doesn’t know. He couldn’t stand the shame.’

‘Aye, mavourneen, I can see ye point.’ He stared at her, his face thoughtful. As she had so accurately assessed, he was not at all shocked by her revelation. Surprised, of course. And infuriated with the cowardice of the boy who had got her into trouble and then deserted her. But Blackie was familiar with human weaknesses, especially of the flesh, and he was not one to pass judgement. And yet, as he continued to observe her, he was immensely disturbed. It occurred to him that her story did not sit too well on his shoulders. His native intuition told him there was something terribly wrong with it, although he was not exactly sure what this was. He gave her the most penetrating look. There seemed to be no deception in her face. She was regarding him openly, her eyes innocent, and her lovely face overflowed with sweetness. Blackie pushed back the feelings of disquiet he was experiencing and said, in a controlled tone, ‘And what will ye do when the baby comes? What will ye do with the baby, Emma?’

‘I don’t know yet, Blackie. I’ll think of something. For the moment I must protect my father-let him continue to believe that I ran away to better myself, that I’m working in Bradford. After the baby’s born, of course I shall go and see him, so that he knows I’m really all right. In the meantime I will keep writing to him, and then he won’t worry so much.’ Before Blackie had a chance to make any comment, Emma rushed on to explain about the letters she had sent from Bradford, and also told him everything else that had happened to her in Leeds. She painted a picture that was a trifle rosier than reality.

He gave her all of his attention and, as he listened, Blackie O’Neill began to realize that the change in her ran deeper than her outward appearance. Indefinable and subtle though this difference was, it was there, and it had not been wrought simply by the sophisticated upswept hairdo and the elegant clothes, undoubtedly castoffs from the Hall. There was a profound alteration in Emma herself. But that’s to be expected, he decided. She’s about to become a mother and her experiences of the last few months most certainly would affect her. Then it hit him. Emma was no longer the starveling child of the moors. She was a young woman and a beautiful one at that, and somehow she had managed to transform herself into a lady overnight. No, not overnight. It had been happening gradually over the past year and a half. He recognized that now. He himself had detected the thoroughbred strain in her the day they had met and now it was apparent for all to see. He smiled wryly. That explained Rosie’s glowing description of her.

Her musical voice intruded on his thoughts. ‘The Kallinskis are very nice, and so kind, Blackie. I hope you’ll meet them. And I like working in the tailoring trade. I’m doing very well, you know,’ Emma was saying. ‘I will be fine in Leeds, Blackie. I know I will.’

‘Yes, I suppose ye will, Emma. But ye are not looking ahead,’ he pointed out. ‘How will ye look after the baby and work as well?’ he demanded with fierceness.

Emma gave him a sharp look. ‘I told you before, I’ll think about that problem later! Right now, I have to make money. To keep myself and to save up for the baby coming.’ She leaned forward and took his hand, squeezing it, hoping to reassure him. ‘Please don’t worry. There’s always a solution to everything,’ she said in a positive voice.

She smiled and her face, so close to his, bewitched him, and once again he became conscious of her as a woman, and his heart beat all that faster. He saw her in a different light than he had ever seen her before.

Without a second thought Blackie said urgently, ‘I have a solution, Emma! Marry me! Then ye will be safe and secure. I’ll take care of ye and the baby, too. Marry me, mavourneen!’

Emma was utterly astounded. She stared at Blackie, quite unable to speak, and for the first time since she had left Fairley she broke down, so moved was she by this loving and unselfish gesture on his part. She lowered her head and the tears spilled down her cheeks and dropped on to her hands fumbling in her bag for her handkerchief. She wiped her eyes and, through her tears, she said tremulously, ‘Oh, Blackie, how wonderful of you to ask me to marry you! What a lovely thing for you to do.’ She paused and gazed into his burning eyes. ‘But I couldn’t do that. It just wouldn’t be fair to hamstring you with a wife, and another man’s child. You have your plans, after all. You’re going to be that toff, that millionaire. You don’t need the responsibility of a family. I couldn’t do that to you, Blackie.’

Blackie had spoken impulsively, not even certain of his real emotions or his true feelings for Emma, and yet, although he recognized the veracity of what she said, he felt a peculiar stab of disappointment at her refusal. ‘But ye cannot be by yeself,’ he persisted, grasping her small hand in his. ‘Ye would be better off with me, mavourneen. Sure and ye would.’

‘And what about you, Blackie O’Neill? Would you be better off with me?’ She smiled a little timorously, the tears still glistening on her lashes. ‘No, I think not. I won’t do that to you, Blackie. The answer is no. I won’t marry you. But thank you anyway. I’m honoured and flattered that you would ask me. Really I am, Blackie.’

He could see that she was adamant and he was not fully certain whether he was relieved or not. He was filled with a variety of emotions. Nevertheless, he felt compelled to say, ‘Very well, mavourneen, we won’t be discussing it further. At least for the time being. Let’s just say me offer is open-in-definitely!’

Emma could not help laughing through her subsiding tears. She shook her head. ‘Oh, Blackie, what will I do with you!’

His anger was slowly dissipating, his doubts about her story were temporarily forgotten, and he joined in her laughter. After a few moments he said, ‘I’ll tell ye what ye’ll do with me, mavourneen mine. Ye’ll come and have a bite of supper with me, at one of them fancy cafes I told ye about, and then I’ll be taking ye to the City Varieties. Vesta Tilley is appearing tonight and ye’ll enjoy the show, I am thinking. Would ye be liking that, Emma? Sure and it’ll be grand to be having a bit of fun for a change. What do ye say? Will ye be accepting me invitation, then?’

‘Yes, I’d love to come with you. Thank you. Blackie-I-’ Emma hesitated and then confessed almost shyly, ‘I’m glad you’re back in Leeds. I feel ever so much better knowing you’re around, knowing you’re my friend.’

Blackie’s long Irish upper lip drew back in a warm smile and his white teeth gleamed. ‘Aye, I am ye friend, Emma,’ he asserted. ‘And I’m glad ye confided in me. Now that I be knowing what ye are facing in the next few months I can do a bit of planning, make sure to be around when ye need me. But we won’t be talking about ye problems any more tonight. Sure, and we’ll face things one by one, as they come along. Now we are going out on the town! I aim to be showing ye off, Emma, me darlin’.’

Emma smiled up at him, her face animated. Thankfully her problems were miraculously retreating now that she was with Blackie. She had felt safe with him from the very first day they had met on the moors and she knew instinctively he would always protect her.

Blackie followed her out of the Saloon Bar and into the main room, which was teeming with people. He could hardly help noticing the masculine heads swivelling to stare, the admiring glances thrown in her direction. He drew himself up to his full height and lifted his head higher. She’s a looker, all right, he thought. Why, there isn’t a man breathing that wouldn’t be proud and delighted to have her by his side. Sure and that’s the truth, Blackie decided.

Then Blackie O’Neill stopped dead in his tracks, staring fixedly at her straight back, her delicately tilted head. With a sudden flash of comprehension he perceived why her story had so bothered him earlier. This transformed Emma Harte, gliding ahead of him so gracefully, would never have become involved with one of the loutish boys from the village. Never. Such an idea was not only inconceivable but preposterous. Then who is the father of her child? he wondered, completely baffled. He realized it would be unwise to question her tonight. Pushing this new and disturbing thought out of his mind, Blackie arranged a pleasant smile on his face and caught up with Emma. He took her arm and shepherded her out into the street, chatting to her in his vivacious way, striving for a semblance of normality. But his eyes held a reflective light.

THIRTY

Blackie and Emma sat on the tram-car going to Armley. It was a bitter-cold Sunday afternoon early in January of 1906. Emma was huddled in the corner of her seat, her altogether beautiful profile turned to him in chilly silence.

Jesus, Mary, and Joseph! Blackie thought in exasperation. She’s so stubborn at times she’s positively rigid. He glanced at her out of the corner of his eye and turned away, further dismayed by the obdurate look on her face. He knew better than to utter one word. She had been obstinate in her refusal to take this trip from the first day he had mentioned it two weeks ago. It had taken all of his powers of persuasion and his smooth Irish tongue to get her to agree, and then her acquiescence had been grudging. Sometimes he did not understand Emma at all, and he had long realized that she was an extremely complex young woman with the most pertinacious will it had ever been his misfortune to encounter. On the other hand, he had to acknowledge that she was amazingly intelligent, even brilliant, and gifted in so many ways. And in most instances she was flexible and open to suggestions, thank the Almighty Lord.

Blackie peered at her again. Surprisingly, that stern expression did nothing to mar her beauty. In fact, it seemed to give her a curiously imperious air that was arresting. Today her hair was drawn back and plaited, the plaits forming loops that hung low on her neck, anchored by a large black taffeta bow in the nape. She wore the green-and-black tartan tam-o’-shanter and the matching scarf he had given her for Christmas; the tam-o’-shanter was perched at a jaunty angle, the long scarf wound around her neck and thrown casually over the shoulders of her black wool coat. Her hands, as always clinging tightly to the black reticule, were encased in bottle-green mittens knitted for her by the devoted Rosie. The dark green tones of the scarf and hat suited her admirably and brought out the greenness of her incredible eyes and the alabaster pallor of her flawless complexion. There was no doubt about it. Emma, in these last months of her pregnancy, looked extraordinarily healthy and well cared for, and as immaculately groomed as always.

The tram rumbled out of the city centre, heading for Whin-gate Junction in Armley, a picturesque village perched on a hill, about half an hour’s ride away. Blackie sat lost in contemplation, patiently waiting for Emma’s mood to change, praying that it would do so before they reached their destination. He would be glad when the baby was born and she could visit Fairley. Although she accepted her pregnancy philosophically and with little visible show of anxiety, Blackie knew she worried excessively about her father and Frank. She had even pressed him into service with the mailing of those allimportant le tters to her dad, badgering him to seek out any of his friends, who might be going to London. She was determined to keep up the pretence that she was travelling with her non-existent Mrs John Smith, which readily explained her absence from Bradford. As luck would have it, he had been able to oblige her in November and December, when some of his mates from the pub were going south to find work on London’s East End docks. They had willingly agreed to post Emma’s letters to her father, without asking any embarrassing questions. Blackie had commented to Emma, though. ‘Ye dad will be wondering why ye don’t give him an address, so he’s can write to ye,’ he had pointed out. ‘No, he won’t,’ Emma had asserted sharply. ‘In the November letter I told him I was going to Paris with my lady, and in the December letter I told him I was accompanying her to Italy. As long as he hears from me, that’s all that matters.’ Blackie eyed her, utterly astonished at the machinations of her mind. ‘It seems ye’ve thought of everything,’ he said dryly. To this remark she had not deigned to respond and the conversation had been terminated.

Blackie stole another look at her, moved closer, and put his arm around her shoulders, easing himself up to her on the seat. ‘I hope ye’ll consider moving to Armley,’ he said carefully, steeling himself for her strong reaction, which, surprisingly, was not forthcoming. She remained perfectly still, her face staring ahead.

Encouraged, Blackie went on, ‘Ye’ll be happier living with Laura Spencer. Sure and ye will, mavourneen. Now that her widowed mother is dead she is looking for a paying guest, someone to share the expense of the house with her. A nice house it is, too. Small, of course, but cosy and well set up. Her late father was a foreman at the printing works, and her mother was a weaver. They had a bit of money and a decent going-on. It shows in the house, the furnishings and all, and Laura keeps it beautifully.’ He paused and searched her face, proceeding in a cheery tone, ‘Ye’ll be real comfortable there. And as I told ye afore, Laura can get ye a job at Thompson’s mill in Armley, where she works. I don’t know why ye are being so stubborn about it, Emma.’

She swung her head unexpectedly and looked at him intensely, her green eyes flashing. ‘Because I don’t like being uprooted! I’ve just learned the tailoring trade and now you want me to leave Kallinski’s and start working at the mill, learning to weave. It doesn’t make sense, Blackie. And besides, I like it at Mrs Daniel’s. She is very kindly these days and I do have the use of her kitchen.’

Blackie groaned. ‘But, Emma, ye’ll be having a whole house to share with Laura. Not only that, she lives just ten minutes away from Thompson’s mill. At present ye spend three quarters of an hour walking to Kallinski’s in the morning and the same amount of time to be getting home at night. It’s a lot of walking in this raw weather. Even the Kallinskis see the sense of what I be suggesting, and David told me the other day that they will be happy to take ye back, after the bairn is born. So what do you have to lose? Nothing, I am thinking.’ He sighed wearily. ‘Ye are a wilful, headstrong girl, Emma, and all I am wanting is what’s best for ye.’

Emma recognized the practicality of what he was suggesting, but for once in her life she was indecisive. ‘I just don’t know-’

Blackie now saw that wavering and he grabbed the opportunity, saying in a positive tone, ‘Look, all I be asking is that ye consider it carefully, and that ye weigh all the odds before ye make a hasty decision not to move in with Laura.’ He took hold of her sturdy hand and squeezed it. ‘And please be nice with Laura. She’s a good friend and I don’t want ye to be acting rude or stuck-up.’

Emma flushed and glared at him. ‘Rude! I’m never rude to anyone! You know better than that. And I’m not stuck-up either, Blackie O’Neill.’

He realized his mistake too late and, hoping to rectify it, Blackie said in the suavest of voices, ‘I know ye don’t mean to be snooty, Emma, me darlin’. But sometimes-well, sometimes ye do give the impression of being-let’s say, a bit hoitytoity.’

‘I do?’ she said wonderingly, frowning and biting her lip. Emma was flabbergasted at this statement, for she truly did not know she could be formidable at times. Invariably her distant manner was engendered by her total preoccupation with her problems and her numerous plans, and nothing else. She remained silent, ruminating on what he had said, feeling mortified.

Sensing that she might be hurt, Blackie remarked gently, ‘Ye’ll be liking Laura. She’s a sweet girl, that she is indeed. And I know she will be liking ye, Emma. Sure and she will, mavourneen.’

‘I’m not so sure about that, in view of what you’ve just said,’ Emma countered.

Blackie laughed a little shamefacedly. ‘Now let’s be forgetting that. All ye have to be doing is exercise a bit of that remarkable charm ye be possessing in such abundance, and everything will be fine.’ He squeezed her hand again and went on, ‘Armley is a grand little spot and very safe. ‘Tis especially pretty in summer when the trees and flowers are blooming. There’s Armley Park where the brass band plays every Sunday and other pleasant lanes and thoroughfares where ye can be taking a stroll. Also, St Mary’s Hospital is nearby, and ye could be having the bairn there, when ye time comes. And there are plenty of shops, so ye won’t be having to venture into Leeds for owt. Why, ye have everything ye be needing in Armley.’

Emma looked at him alertly. ‘Shops,’ she said thoughtfully. ‘But I thought Armley was a tiny village. There can’t be that many shops, Blackie.’

‘Oh, aye, there are, mavourneen. Ye see, Armley is spread out, so to speak. It be quite large really. There are a lot of fine homes. Mansions, in fact, where the posh folk live. Millowners and the like. There are a number of good shops in Town Street catering to the Quality trade. I’ve seen ‘em, when I’ve been visiting Laura afore. Ye’ll have a chance to look at ‘em yeself, when we walk down the main street to get to Laura’s house.’

‘What sort of shops?’ Emma pressed, her eyes turned on him with fierce interest.

Aware that he had now captured her complete attention and observing the change in her attitude, Blackie spoke excitedly, hoping to sway her further. ‘Well, let me be thinking. There be grocers, butchers, and greengrocers, all on Town Street, along with a pork butcher’s shop, an off-licence, a fishmonger’s, Keene’s dairy, a chemist, and a newsagent. I’ve also noticed a draper’s, a haberdasher’s, a shoe store, and a fine ladies’ dress establishment as well, mavourneen. It is quite an active thoroughfare, almost as busy as Briggate, indeed it is. Why, I think there are shops selling practically everything, Emma.’

Emma had listened carefully and she was rapidly reversing her preconceived ideas about sharing Laura Spencer’s house. ‘Tell me more about the village,’ she said. ‘For instance, how big is it? How many people live there?’

‘Ah, Emma, me love, now ye have me. I must be confessing I don’t know its exact size, or how many people reside in Armley. But it must be a goodly number, I am thinking, for the shops do a brisk business. Then again, there are several churches and chapels and quite a few schools, so there must be plenty of folk in the vicinity. Yes, it is a thriving place, sure and it is. Laura told me there is a public library and Liberal, Conservative, and Workingmen’s clubs. Why, there is even a jail in Armley. Horrible dungeon of a place, it is, by the looks of it.’ Blackie winked at her. ‘There are lots of pubs, too. I meself know at least six personally.’

Emma laughed for the first time since they had set out. ‘You would know that.’

‘And what’s wrong with a young spalpeen liking a pint of bitter now and then and an occasional noggin of good Irish?’ Blackie asked jestingly, adopting an injured air. Then he tugged on her arm urgently. ‘Come on, mavourneen! Here we are, ye can be seeing Armley for yeself.’

The tram had stopped at the terminus halfway up the hill. Blackie jumped down agilely and helped Emma to alight. ‘Careful now, love. It’s pretty bad underfoot. I don’t want ye to be having a spill and upsetting Tinker Bell,’ he said, clasping her hands tightly in his.

‘Tinker Bell?’

‘Aye, Tinker Bell. That’s what I be calling the baby, to meself of course. Ye know, after Tinker Bell in Peter Pan. Don’t ye approve of me name for her?’

She laughed. ‘Yes, I do, Blackie. But how do you know it will be a girl?’

‘Because ye keep telling me it will be.’ Blackie tucked her arm through his, pushed his hands into the pockets of his new navy-blue overcoat, and said, ‘That’s the Towers up there, where the rich folk live.’ He inclined his head towards a splendid driveway lined with trees. ‘And Town Street is just ahead of us. Now watch ye step. It’s slippery today.’

‘Yes, I will, Blackie.’ She drew closer to him, shivering. The north wind gusting down the hill was laden with frost and biting. Emma looked up. The sky was a frozen canopy soaring above them, icily white, and the pale winter sun was hardly visible, a tiny silver coin thrown negligently up into the far corner of that vast and hollow firmament. It was oddly silent now that the tram had stopped, for there were no carriages out or people abroad on this bleak and cheerless Sunday.

‘There’s Charley Cake Park,’ Blackie informed her, his head swivelling to the triangular-shaped plot on the opposite side of the road. ‘It’ll be a nice little place for ye to sit in the summer with Tinker Bell watching the passersby.’

‘I won’t have any time to sit anywhere with any Tinker Bell,’ Emma retorted, although this was said in a mild tone. She looked up at him sceptically. ‘Charley Cake Park! What kind of name is that? I bet you made it up.’

‘Now, why is it ye always challenge everything I be saying? I shall have to call ye Doubting Emma if ye are not careful, me lass. Anyway, that’s the name, sure and it is. Laura told me that years ago a man called Charley hawked cakes there and that’s how it-’

‘Got its name,’ Emma finished for him, her eyes full of merriment. ‘I believe you, Blackie. Nobody could invent a name like that.’

He grinned, but said nothing, and they walked on in silence. Emma glanced about her with considerable interest. They were now passing a neat row of houses facing on to Town Street. It reminded her of a scene from a fairy tale. Immense pie-like wedges of powdery snow slid across the red rooftops and hung precariously at the edges, and dripping from the gutters were countless icicles, shimmering scintillas of spun sugar in that pellucid air. Magically, the snow and ice had turned the mundane little dwellings into quaint gingerbread houses. The fences and the gates and the bare black trees were also encrusted with frozen snowflakes that, to Emma, resembled the silvery decorations on top of a magnificent Christmas cake. Paraffin lamps and firelight glowed through the windows and eddying whiffs of smoke drifted out of the chimneys, but these were the only signs of life on Town Street. The houses looked snug and inviting, and Emma imagined a happy family in each one; parents lazily warming themselves in front of the lambent flames, rosy-cheeked children at their feet, eating apples and oranges and roasting chestnuts, all of them laughing and enjoying a peaceful afternoon together, surrounded by love. She thought with a terrible yearning of her father and Frank and she wished with fervency that she was sitting with them in front of the fire in the little cottage in Fairley.

‘Now, Emma, here are the first of the shops,’ Blackie announced, his voice booming out in the stillness. ‘They go all the way down Town Street to Branch Road. Look, mavourneen, did I not tell ye the truth?’

Emma followed the direction of his gaze, her eyes wide with excitement, her sadness pushed to one side. ‘Yes, you did,’ she conceded. They passed the fishmonger’s, the haberdasher’s, the chemist’s, and the grand ladies’ dress establishment, and Emma recognized that this was indeed a fine shopping area. She was enormously intrigued and an idea was germinating. It will be easier to get a shop here. Rents will be cheaper than in Leeds, she reasoned logically. Maybe I can open my first shop in Armley, after the baby comes. And it would be a start. She was so enthusiastic about this idea that by the time they reached the street where Laura Spencer lived she already had the shop and was envisioning its diverse merchandise. Blackie might call her Doubting Emma, but she certainly had no doubts about one thing-her ultimate success. Her first shop would be in Armley and she would assiduously court the carriage trade. That was where the money was. Blackie had said so himself.

They walked along the street of terraced houses, all of them neat and respectable with their green painted doors, shining windows, trim gardens, and black iron gates. Just before they reached Laura Spencer’s house a thought struck Emma. She stopped and grabbed Blackie’s arm. ‘What have you told Laura about me?’ she asked.

Blackie gazed down at her, a faintly surprised look on his face. ‘Why, exactly what ye told me to tell her,’ he responded quietly. ‘The same story ye told everybody, right down to the last detail, Mrs Harte, sailor’s wife, expectant mother, dear friend of Blackie O’Neill.’ Emma smiled with relief and nodded, and they went up the garden path together. She wondered what Laura was like, but in a sense that hardly mattered to her. The important thing was that she made a good impression on Laura.

Emma now realized that Blackie had confided very little about his friend and she did not know what to expect as they stood on the front step. She certainly wasn’t prepared for the girl who opened the door and greeted them so charmingly, and with undisguised delight. Laura Spencer had the shining and tranquil face of a Madonna, and there was an expression of such trust in her eyes, and her smile was so loving, and so sweet, it was at once apparent to Emma that she was confronting someone who was unquestionably different from anyone else she had ever met.

Laura ushered them into the house, exclaiming on the rawness of the weather, sympathizing about the long cold journey they had just endured, her genuine concern for their well-being obvious. She took their coats, scarves, and Emma’s tam-o’-shanter and hung them on the hat-stand near the door, and then drew them into the parlour, moving with infinite grace as she led them to chairs grouped around a roaring fire.

Now Laura took hold of Emma’s hands as she said, ‘I’m so happy to meet you, Emma. Blackie has told me such lovely things about you. Goodness, your hands are cold! Sit here and get the chill out of your bones, dear.’

Emma said, ‘I’m glad to meet you, too, Laura.’ Without appearing to rudely scrutinize the room Emma swiftly took in the subdued blue-and-white-striped wallpaper, the heavy blue velvet curtains at the windows, the few pieces of mahogany furniture, scant but gleaming with beeswax, and the attractiveness of the other furnishings. The room was small but neat, and not at all cluttered like Mrs Daniel’s hideous front parlour. An air of solidness and comfort prevailed.

Laura said to them both apologetically, ‘I am sorry I wasn’t all prepared for you, but I had to visit a sick friend and I was delayed longer than I anticipated. I just got in a little while before you arrived. Anyway, the tea will be ready shortly, and the kettle’s boiling.’

Blackie said, ‘That’s all right, Laura. Don’t fuss yeself. We’re in no hurry, so take ye time, love.’ This was uttered so softly and so temperately Emma’s eyes flew to Blackie with quickening interest. She discerned a marked difference in his demeanour, which was restrained, and there was a look of mingled gentleness and respect on his face. This did not surprise Emma. She had already perceived that Laura’s refined manner was bound to bring out the best in other people.

‘Please excuse me for a moment or two,’ Laura continued in her soft voice, placing the remainder of the china on the table. ‘I have a few last-minute things to do in the kitchen.’

Blackie and Emma murmured their assent and Blackie said, ‘Do ye mind if I smoke me pipe, Laura?’ She was halfway across the floor and she turned and shook her head, her eyes filling with laughter. ‘No, of course not Please make yourself at home, and you too, Emma.’

From her vantage point near the fireplace, Emma could see Laura in the small kitchen that adjoined the parlour. She was wearing a pale blue woollen dress with a full skirt, long sleeves, and a large white Quaker collar, and although the dress was a little worn and darned in places, its simplicity and pristine colours added to the impression of immaculateness and virtue she conveyed. She’s beautiful, Emma thought, intrigued by the tall, slender girl who appeared to be surrounded by an aura of spirituality.

Laura Spencer’s features were so classically drawn, so fragile, and the bones were so fine, her face seemed attenuated at times. There were those, who were undiscerning, who considered her plain and faded and they would not have agreed with Emma at all. But Emma saw the Dresden china-like delicacy of the features that contributed so much to her exquisiteness, saw the golden lights in her honey-coloured hair that gave it a shimmering iridescence, saw the tenderness and wisdom that filled the enormous hazel eyes with a radiant luminosity. And she recognized Laura’s loveliness for what it truly was-an outward reflection of purity.

Emma was not wrong in these assessments. There was indeed something special about Laura Spencer. Very simply, she refused to countenance evil. Laura was a Roman Catholic and unwavering in her faith; her religion, which she never discussed or inflicted on her friends, was the mainspring of her life. To Laura, God was neither nebulous nor remote. His presence was constant, eternal and everlasting.

Sitting there in that cosy parlour, listening to Laura’s light voice echoing out from the kitchen, Emma was not yet entirely aware of all of this. But somehow, in some curious fashion, Laura’s inner grace had mysteriously communicated itself to her, and she was experiencing a sense of peace so profound she was startled. Emma continued to gaze at Laura and she thought: I want her to be my friend. I want her to like me. I want to share this house with her.

‘Ye are very quiet, mavourneen,’ Blackie said. ‘That’s a bit unusual for ye, I am thinking. Ye are generally such a chatterbox.’

Emma jumped. He had startled her. ‘I was just thinking,’ she responded. Blackie smiled and puffed on his pipe. Emma was just as captivated by Laura as he had anticipated, and he was delighted.

‘Could you bring the kettle into the kitchen, please, Blackie,’ Laura called, ‘so I can mash the tea.’

‘Sure and I can, mavourneen,’ he exclaimed. He lifted the steaming copper kettle off the hob and strode across the room, a towering bulk in that small space.

‘Can I do anything?’ Emma inquired eagerly, also rising.

Laura looked around the kitchen door. ‘No, thank you, Emma. It’s all ready now.’ Within seconds she came into the parlour carrying a large tray containing plates of food and Blackie followed with the teapot.

As she sat down, Emma thought how nicely Laura had arranged the table. ‘You are very artistic, Laura. The table looks lovely,’ Emma volunteered. She smiled at Laura, who seemed pleased at this shyly offered compliment.

‘Aye, ‘tis a feast fit for kings, sure and it is,’ Blackie said, also regarding the table. ‘But ye shouldn’t have made such a spread or gone to all this trouble, Laura. Ye have enough to do with all ye church work and charities.’

‘It was no bother, Blackie. You know I like cooking. And I enjoy having visitors. Now, come along. Help yourselves. You must both be hungry after that chilly trip from Leeds. I’m sure you’ve worked up an appetite, Blackie.’

‘Aye, I have that,’ he responded, and helped himself to a sandwich. Something of Blackie’s natural exuberance flowed to the surface during the tea and he kept the girls giggling at his stories, as was his artful way when he wanted to be entertaining. The actor in him could never be suppressed for long, and he became so volatile neither Emma nor Laura could get a word in edgewise. Laura, however, did respond swiftly to some of his more outrageous pronouncements, and Emma realized this gentle girl was blessed with a sense of humour in spite of her basic seriousness, and that mild manner belied a stringent wit.

For her part, Laura Spencer was impressed with Emma. She had been initially startled by her striking beauty, but while she had prepared the tea, Laura had observed her discreetly, and she had quickly become aware of the younger girl’s pleasant yet dignified manner. She had also detected the intelligence in those matchless green eyes and the refinement in the oval face. Blackie had told her that Emma lived in a small uncomfortable attic and spent hours walking to and from work. He was worried about her health. And no wonder, Laura thought. She needs a little mothering at a time like this: seven months pregnant and utterly alone. She was filled with a rush of sisterly warmth for Emma.

As the tea progressed, Blackie pondered about the two girls who flanked him at the tea table. He loved them both, albeit in wholly different ways, and he was gratified that they had taken a liking to each other. He had known they would, even though they were exact opposites physically, and in temperament. He stole a look at Laura, who was wiping her vulnerable mouth with her serviette. There she was, all porcelain fragility, retiring, spiritual Laura, who was utterly selfless in so many ways. He glanced at Emma out of the corner of his eye. Next to Laura’s gentle loveliness, Emma’s beauty seemed fierce and wild; there was something frightening about her, and he had long suspected she might turn out to be ruthless and expedient, if that was ever necessary. And yet, in spite of their intrinsic difference, they shared several common traits-integrity, courage, and compassion. Perhaps those things will bind them in friendship, he thought. Also, even though Laura, at twenty-one, was only a few years older than Emma, Blackie believed she would look after her in an affectionate and motherly way. Likewise, he sensed that Emma’s spirited and vivacious presence in the house would help to assuage the loneliness Laura had felt since her mother’s death four months ago. He hoped so.

Emma was talking enthusiastically to Laura about the tailoring trade and Kallinski’s workshop, and her vibrant voice caught his attention. Blackie turned to look at Emma. In the roseate glow of the parlour her animated face blazed with life. Her looks would blind any man, he said to himself. Then he wondered, as he had so often lately, who it was she had blinded seven or eight months ago. He still had not dared to ask her who the father of her child really was. He crushed down on that disturbing thought and turned his attention to the matter at hand-how to broach the subject of Emma moving in with Laura, and going to work at Thompson’s mill.

Almost as if she had read his mind, he heard Laura say, ‘You sound as if you really love the tailoring trade, Emma. And you’ve certainly mastered it quickly, from what I hear. I’m sure you would have no trouble learning to weave-’ Laura paused, as always not wanting to appear presumptuous or forward.

‘Is weaving very difficult?’ Emma asked cautiously.

‘No, not really. Not when you’ve got the hang of it and understand the process. I don’t think you would find it hard, Emma. Honestly I don’t.’

Emma glanced swiftly at Blackie and then turned back to Laura and said, ‘Can you get me a job at Thompson’s? Are you sure?’

‘Yes, I am positive!’ Laura exclaimed. ‘I spoke to the foreman the other day, and you can start any time you want. They are looking for new girls to train. You’d go on the looms right away, as a learner, of course.’

Emma pondered this for a split second and made up her mind. She plunged right in. ‘Would you be willing to let me share the house with you, Laura? I won’t be any trouble and I’ll pay my way.’ Her gaze did not stray from Laura.

Laura’s angelic face broke into a delighted smile and her fine hazel eyes lit up. ‘Of course, Emma. I would love to have you. Anyway, I can’t really afford to keep this house on alone, but I am reluctant to give it up. I’ve lived here most of my life. Apart from that, you would be wonderful company for me. I’ve been looking for someone congenial and pleasant like you.’ She leaned forward and squeezed Emma’s arm affectionately, and in a reassuring way. ‘And also, I think you would be better off here with me, what with the baby due in two months. I can look after you, Emma. And I know Blackie agrees-’

‘I do that!’ interjected Blackie, pleased with the turn of events.

‘Do let me show you the rest of the house, and the room you would have, Emma,’ Laura suggested. She led the way up the steep and narrow staircase. Laura opened a door on the landing. ‘This would be yours, Emma,’ she announced with a bright smile. She swept in ahead of them and lighted a candle on the dresser.

‘Now, isn’t this nice and comfy!’ Blackie stated, hovering in the doorway. He pushed Emma forward.

Emma looked back at him. ‘Yes, it is,’ she said. Taking up most of the space was a large brass bed covered with a patchwork quilt. The walls were white, and there was even a clipped rug on the floor by the bed.

‘This was my parents’ room,’ Laura said. She then added, rather shyly, ‘I thought you would like it, Emma. Since it’s large, and has a double bed, your husband could stay here when he’s home on leave.’ Emma opened her mouth and instantly shut it when she saw Blackie’s face.

Blackie said, ‘Er-er-well, he’s not due to come home for a long while yet. A very long while. He’s at sea. So, we don’t have to be worrying about that!’ He looked around, desperately wondering how to change the subject, and continued rapidly, in a rush of words, ‘Now, Emma, do ye not see that space over there by the window? Between the wardrobe and the washstand? Ye could be fixing up a sewing table there and making the dresses for the ladies, like ye said ye wanted to. Laura wouldn’t be minding. Would ye, Laura, me love?’ He hoped he had managed to avert an awkward discussion about that damned imaginary husband of Emma’s.

‘No, not at all. It won’t disturb me.’ Laura glanced at Emma, who was surveying the room, a crease still puckering her smooth brow. Laura thought with dismay: Oh, dear. She doesn’t like the house. But being unwilling to influence Emma in any way, she was prompted to say, ‘It’s a bit cold up here. Shall we go downstairs? You can let me know later, Emma. You don’t have to make up your mind now.’

Emma saw the flicker of consternation on Laura’s face and she grasped her arm. ‘I like the room! Really I do! I would love to share the house with you. That is, if I can afford it, Laura.’

The three of them trooped back to the parlour. Blackie threw logs on to the fire and Laura got out her housekeeping accounts book. She joined Blackie and Emma in front of the hearth. ‘The rent is four shillings a week, so your half would be two shillings, Emma. Then there is the cost of the logs and the coal in winter and the paraffin for the lamps. If you could split that with me I would be most grateful. Altogether, it will come to about five shillings a week in winter. But it will be less in summer.’

‘Five shillings!’ Emma exclaimed.

Laura stared at her, a worried expression flooding her eyes again. ‘Oh, dear. Is that too much? Perhaps I can-’

‘No, it’s not too much,’ Emma interrupted. ‘I expected it to be more. It’s certainly very fair. Why, I pay three shillings a week for the attic at Mrs Daniel’s.’

Laura looked at Emma askance, and Blackie roared, ‘I always told ye that bloody woman was robbing ye blind, and ye wouldn’t pay no mind to me! Ah, Emma! Ye should have moved in with Laura weeks ago, like I was begging ye to.’

‘Hush, Blackie. Don’t get so excited,’ Laura said lightly but with firmness. She handed the housekeeping book to Emma. ‘You can see all the figures for yourself. I want you to know what everything costs.’

Emma did not want to take the book, but Laura forced it on her. She gave it the most cursory of glances, for she knew this girl would not attempt to make money out of her. After a moment she handed it back. ‘Laura, please! I don’t have to go through all these figures. I know you are scrupulous. In fact, maybe you are not charging me enough. I don’t want you to be out of pocket.’

Laura said, ‘Yes, it is enough. Really it is.’ She returned the accounts book to the sideboard drawer and went on, ‘Did Blackie tell you that you’re not paid for the first month, while you are learning to weave?’ Emma nodded. Laura cleared her throat and looked at Emma carefully, then she said, ‘Well, for that first month you don’t have to pay me anything.’

‘No, I can’t do that. It wouldn’t be right,’ Emma cried.

Laura was adamant. ‘I will not take money from you when you’re not earning, Emma.’ The older girl saw the immense pride flaring on Emma’s face, and, understanding that she did not want to accept charity, and not wishing to embarrass her further, Laura remarked quietly, ‘Just give me the two shillings for the rent. That’s a happy medium.’ Emma reluctantly agreed, so as not to offend Laura, although she was determined to pay her the whole of the five shillings. She would take it out of her savings.

‘It’s all settled, then. Emma will move in next Saturday. I shall bring her meself, sure and I will!’ declared Blackie, now taking charge. He beamed at them both. ‘Ye see, I was right all along. I knew it would work out and that ye would be liking each other.’

Emma smiled but made no comment. She was happy she had made the decision to move to Armley, to share Laura Spencer’s house. A strange pervading sense of peace settled over her again, and she relaxed in the chair, feeling suddenly at ease and more sure of the future than she had been for a long time. Everything was going to be all right. She knew that now. Emma was not aware of it at that moment, but she was never to forget that first encounter with Laura Spencer as long as she lived. Over the years she grew to realize that Laura was the only truly good person she had ever known, and she loved her deeply.

The following Friday Emma said a sad farewell to her fellow workers at the tailoring shop, who were sorry to see her leave, and to all of the Kallinskis, with whom she had Sabbath dinner at Janessa’s insistence. After dinner Janessa took Emma to one side. ‘I want you to promise me that you will come to me if you need anything in the next few months,’ she said. ‘Armley is not so far away and I can soon be there.’

‘Oh, Mrs Kallinski, that’s lovely of you. Thank you. I promise I will.’

It was a tearful parting and only David seemed undismayed. He knew their paths would cross again. He intended to make sure of that. Emma gave him her address in Armley and he extracted a faithful promise from her to write as soon as she was settled. Even Mrs Daniel had tears in her eyes when Emma left and she, too, asked her to stay in touch.

On Monday morning Laura took her to Thompson’s mill. From the moment she entered it, Emma hated that place as fiercely as she had loved Abraham Kallinski’s little factory. No camaraderie here. No jokes and laughter. Rigid discipline reigned, and the gaffers were harsh and demanding as they walked up and down between the looms. Emma instantly loathed the stench of the oily raw wool and was deafened by the unceasing rattling of the shuttles; on her third day there she was totally unnerved when she witnessed a shuttle fly off and strike a girl in the face, scarring her for life, an accident that was not unusual.

Laura was a good teacher, patient and explicit in her instructions; nevertheless, Emma found the weaving process difficult and she was terrified of getting a ‘trap’, which occurred when a hundred or so threads broke on the loom. A ‘trap’ took hours to repair. These were precious hours lost, and the weaver had to work furiously to make up the lost time. But Emma was careful and she never did have a ‘trap’ as long as she worked at the mill.

In her diligent way she persevered, for she was determined that nothing was going to get the better of her; she also knew she had no alternative but to prove herself a competent weaver in order to earn a living. With her singlemindedness, her fast mind and nimble fingers, she mastered the craft of weaving within the month, as Laura had predicted she would. Her self-confidence grew as her expertise increased, yet she still disliked working in that cheerless and rigidly controlled environment.

She and Laura started at six o’clock in the morning and finished at six at night, interminable and dreary days to Emma. As the weeks dragged on she grew heavier with child and increasingly weary and exhausted. To her dismay, her legs continually swelled up from standing long hours at the loom, and she often thought that the baby would be born right there at her feet on the mill floor. However, Laura was a great comfort to her and Emma constantly marvelled at her good humour, and she never ceased to wonder what she would have done without Laura’s staunch support and her devotion.

One Tuesday evening, towards the end of March, Emma knew the baby was coming and Laura took her into St Mary’s Hospital at Hill Top. After ten hours in labour she gave birth to her child exactly one month to the day before her own seventeenth birthday. To Emma’s joy it was a girl.

THIRTY-ONE

Emma sat in front of the fire in the parlour of Laura’s house, staring morosely into space, her mind weighted down with a problem; a problem that pushed all else to one side. She had lived with it for the last few days, ever since the baby had been born. Now she knew it must be solved, and imminently. Emma had many imperatives, but taking precedence was her concern for her child. It was essential that she make a decision about the baby’s immediate future. She could not afford to pro-crastinate.

Emma shivered, suddenly aware of a coldness in her legs, a numbing aching in her bones. She bestirred herself heavily, not as swift of movement as usual, picked up the poker and drove it into the logs in the fireplace, angrily as if to ventilate her sense of helplessness. The logs fell apart, sputtered, and flooded the room with the brightest of lights that illuminated its shining neatness, its cosy comfort.

The light glanced across the child lying at her feet in the makeshift cot, which Laura had fashioned out of a drawer and had lined with thick blankets and downy pillows. The baby lay on her side, her fluff of silver-blonde hair shimmering in the firelight, her round pink face turned to Emma, her tiny hand curled in a miniature fist next to her delicate mouth. She slept in perfect peace. This child was hers. Part of her. How could she ever give her up? Quite unexpectedly, a fierce sense of protectiveness invaded Emma and that single-mindedness of purpose to succeed, to rise above her circumstances, was strongly reinforced. ‘I won’t let anything happen to you!’ she whispered softly but with vehemence to the sleeping child. ‘I won’t! And you’ll have the best that money can buy. I promise you that!’

Emma continued to observe her daughter, now four days old, for a few moments longer and then she turned back to the fire. No sacrifice she could ever make would be too great if it ensured the security and well-being of her baby. Eventually she picked up the flannel nightgown she was making, determined not to dwell on the future. She began to sew. One step at a time. One day at a time. Slowly. Slowly. Building as you go along. That is the only way.

As she continued to ply her perfect stitches, an aura of total dejection, abnormal for Emma, enveloped her. She knew she could not keep the baby with her, even though she longed to do so. She had to work at the mill to earn a living and there was no one available to care for the child during the day. Emma would not countenance the idea of adoption or an orphanage. There was only one other solution. Emma was not particularly happy about this alternative; however, she had come to the realization, after several sleepless nights, that she really had no choice. She turned the problem of the baby over in her mind yet again, wrestling with the advantages and disadvantages of the scheme she had concocted, diverse thoughts racing through her head as swiftly as her needle flew along the hem of the nightgown.

‘Hello! Hello! Anybody home?’

Startled, Emma looked up quickly. The door had opened to admit Blackie O’Neill. It was a brisk March day outside and the wind had whipped the rosiest of tints into his perennially tanned cheeks and ruffled his black hair into a mass of dancing curls. He had a happy-go-lucky air about him and, to Emma, he seemed considerably pleased with himself. He was carrying several packages.

‘Blackie! I didn’t expect you so soon!’ Emma exclaimed in surprise. She put down the sewing and stood up, automatically smoothing her immaculate hair.

Blackie grinned and deposited the parcels on the table. He pulled Emma to him and wrapped his huge arms around her, hugging her tightly, and with a show of great affection. ‘Well, ye be looking the picture of health and beauty after ye confinement,’ he remarked, staring at her appraisingly. Emma forced a smile, attempting to conceal her disquiet, but she said nothing. Seemingly unconscious of her dispirited mood, Blackie went on enthusiastically, ‘I brought a few presents for the bairn. Trifles ye might be liking.’ He indicated the items on the table.

‘Oh, Blackie, you’re too generous! You mustn’t spend all your money on the baby. You bought the shawl only the other week.’

‘That’s what money is for, I am thinking. To be spent.’ He shrugged out of his topcoat and went to hang it on the stand in the doorway. ‘Me and me Uncle Pat are doing better than ever. We got three important jobs this week, and we’ll be having to take on more men. Aye, success is in the air for the O’Neills.’ He turned and winked at Emma. ‘Anyway, I had a bit of a windfall yesterday, so to speak. Backed the winner at Doncaster races. That I did, mavourneen. I had a pound each way, at twenty to one, and made quite a bundle. So, this morning, I thought to meself: Since ye are a flush boyo this week, with a bit of extra money in ye pocket, Blackie O’Neill, ye must be sharing ye good fortune with Emma. And I took meself off at once to Briggate and bought a few things for me darlin’ Tinker Bell.’

‘I’m glad you won, Blackie. But shouldn’t you be saving your money so you can build that grand house you’re always talking about?’ suggested the pragmatic Emma.

Blackie was amused. He shrugged. ‘I’ll be having me Georgian house one day, Emma. And the few shillings I’ve spent today won’t be making all that much difference.’ He lowered his enormous frame and knelt on the floor next to the cot. He peeped at the baby. ‘And isn’t she the most darlin’ thing!’ He smoothed the cot blanket with infinite care. ‘A little cherub, sure and she is.’ The baby moved and opened her eyes, blinking her long silvery lashes. She gurgled and kicked her legs under the coverlet. Blackie’s eyes lit up. ‘Look, mavourneen! I do believe she be recognizing her Uncle Blackie already. Sure and she does!’

‘It seems she does. And she is a sweet baby, Blackie, and good, too. She hasn’t cried at all since I’ve been home from St Mary’s Hospital.’ Emma now glanced at the table. ‘Thank you for the presents, Blackie.’

‘Hush!’ cried Blackie, straightening up. ‘Come on, Emma. Open them. Start with this.’ He handed her the largest package. Emma sat down in the chair, and unwrapped it. ‘Why, Blackie, this is just lovely,’ she exclaimed, lifting out a pink knitted coat trimmed with pink ribbons.

Blackie beamed. ‘Here’s the bonnet and a pair of booties to match,’ he said, offering her another parcel. ‘I hope they will all be fitting her. I had to be guessing the size, since I’m not accustomed to buying things for such a wee mite.’ He looked at Emma anxiously. ‘Do you think they are all right then?’

‘They are perfect. Really perfect. Thank you, Blackie.’

‘Unwrap this. It’s the last,’ he said. ‘Not as practical as the coat and bonnet, I am thinking. But necessary, in a way. Tinker Bell has to have a few toys, ye know, mavourneen.’

Emma pulled the paper off excitedly and held up the fluffy white lamb which sported a large pink bow and a bell at its neck. ‘Oh, isn’t it sweet! And you bought a rattle as well.’ She shook the polished bone ring, which also had a bell attached, and then placed the lamb and the rattle in the cot next to the baby. She stood up and kissed Blackie. ‘Thank you, Blackie. You’re so good to us.’ Emma was touched by his thoughtfulness and the obvious care he had taken in selecting the clothes and the toys.

‘Aay, it’s nothing at all, me love,’ he said, and glanced around. ‘And where might Laura be?’

‘There’s a jumble sale at the Catholic church this afternoon and she’s looking after one of the stalls. She’ll be back in time for tea. You are staying, aren’t you? We expected you to.’

‘Sure and I am.’ He settled himself in the chair opposite Emma and fished around in his pocket for his cigarettes. After he had lit one he said, ‘And when do ye have to go back to the mill, mavourneen?’

Emma did not answer for a moment and then she lifted her head slowly. ‘I can please myself. The foreman told Laura I could have the whole week off, after I came out of hospital. We’re not so busy right now, and it doesn’t matter to the mill either way, since I’m paid by the piece. They don’t have to pay my wage when I’m not working.’

‘Are ye going to take next week off? I think ye should,’ Blackie remarked, eyeing her closely.

‘So does Laura. She worries about my health. But I feel very well. I do really, Blackie. I could go back on Monday but-’ Her voice trailed off and she examined the sewing, finishing thoughtfully, ‘I don’t think I will, though. I’ve things to do next week.’ Emma dropped her eyes, not elucidating further. Blackie did not want to pry, knowing this would irritate her. Emma was not always given to making confidences, and he had learned not to question her unduly.

After a moment Emma said, ‘So business is good, is it?’

‘Aye, it is, colleen! And do ye know, I am drawing up me first plans for me first house, one of me own design.’ He laughed wryly. ‘Well, it’s not a whole house, just a wing we are to build on to an existing house for a customer in Headingley. The gentleman that owns it, a real toff I might be adding, liked me ideas, and he told me to go ahead and to be making me plans. Them night-school classes in draftsmanship are going to be paying off. Ye’ll see, mavourneen.’

‘That’s wonderful, Blackie.’

This was said somewhat listlessly, and Blackie was at once aware of her closed face, her obvious lack of interest. He studied her carefully and saw the dark glint in her green eyes, the grim expression on her lips. No, not grim. Miserable, he decided. He wondered what was disturbing her, but again refrained from asking any questions. As he continued to expound about the wing of the house he was to design and build, Blackie continued to watch her out of the corner of his eye. Finally he could not prevent himself saying, ‘Why are ye looking so gloomy, me love? That’s not like ye.’ She did not respond. ‘Nay, Emma, ye’ve got a face like a wet week. What’s upsetting ye?’

‘Oh, nothing, really-’ She hesitated and then blurted out against her will. ‘I’m a bit concerned about the baby not being christened.’

Blackie was flabbergasted. He stared at her uncomprehendingly and threw back his head and roared with laughter. Emma looked hurt, but he could not help it. ‘Concerned about the baby not being christened!’ he echoed, trying to swallow the last of his merriment. ‘I can’t believe me own ears, Emma. Why should that matter to ye? After all, ye’ve been telling me for months that ye are an atheist.’

‘I am! I haven’t changed my mind about that,’ Emma cried. ‘But I don’t feel right about it. Not having her christened. The baby might believe in God when she grows up, and then she might hold it against me if she ever finds out she wasn’t baptized.’

He could see she was in real earnest and so he said, ‘Why don’t ye go to see the vicar of Christ Church and arrange-’

‘Oh, I couldn’t do that,’ Emma interjected harshly, fixing him with a cold stare. ‘The vicar would want her birth certificate, that’s customary, and he’d see straightaway that the baby is-is-illegitimate, and then he wouldn’t do it. Besides, I don’t want him, or anyone else, knowing my business.’

‘Well, Emma, if ye don’t go to Christ Church, I don’t know what ye can do. There’s no solution I can think of. Ye can’t have her christened, and that’s that!’

‘Yes, I know. I wouldn’t have mentioned it to you if you hadn’t asked me why I was gloomy. And you’re right, there’s nothing to be done. I shall just have to hope the baby isn’t angry with me one day.’

If the child’s ever angry it will be about her illegitimacy and not her baptism, or rather lack of it, Blackie thought. But he said, ‘Ye are such a contradiction, mavourneen mine. But look here, Emma, if it’s that important to ye, why don’t we take the baby to a church in another part of Leeds? One where ye are not likely to be knowing anybody, and have her christened there. Then it won’t matter about anybody seeing the birth certificate.’

‘No! No! I don’t want a soul to know she’s illegitimate,’ Emma snapped.

Suddenly an idea occurred to Blackie. A marvellous idea. ‘I’ve got it! We’ll have our own christening! Right here and now!’ He leapt up and strode purposefully to the sink in the kitchen. ‘Leeds Corporation water is as good as any for a baptism, I am thinking,’ he shouted gaily. ‘Bring me a bowl.’

‘What do you mean by “have our own christening”? I don’t understand.’ Her brow puckered into a frown.

‘Since ye are so troubled about the bairn not being baptized, I meself am going to do it. Now. Bring her over to the sink. Come on,’ he urged, standing in the kitchen doorway.

Total disbelief flickered on to Emma’s face. ‘You do it! But would it be proper? Would it be a real christening, I mean?’

‘Sure and it would. Do as I say,’ Blackie commanded. ‘I can do just as good a job as a vicar, or a priest, for that matter. Even though I am a lapsed Catholic I still believe in God, ye know. I might not be going to the church, Emma, but I never lost me faith. Never. Be sure of that. And God lives within all of us. That is my true belief. I feel Him in me heart, and that’s what’s most important. To feel His love and His presence eternally with us.’

Although Emma was astonished, she knew that he meant every word he said.

Blackie continued in a tender voice, ‘I don’t think He will be angry that I am taking matters into me own hands, in this emergency. And He will accept her as one of His blessed children, Emma. Sure and He will. His own son, Jesus, said, “Suffer little children to come unto me, and forbid them not; for of such is the kingdom of God.” Please, believe me, it’s the baptism and the spirit of love behind it that counts, and not the man that does it, or where it’s done. We need neither a church nor a font, Emma.’

‘I believe you, Blackie. I want you to christen the baby.’

‘That’s my Emma,’ said Blackie. ‘Now, pick up the baby and bring her over here.’ Blackie occupied himself at the sink, preparing the bowl of tepid water, and then he hurried across to the sideboard and pulled open a drawer, searching for a towel.

Emma now lifted the baby out of the makeshift cot and cradled her in her arms, stroking her small face and cooing to her. ‘Oh, my sweet little girl,’ Emma exclaimed, entranced with the child. Unexpectedly Edwin Fairley’s face flashed before her eyes. If only Edwin had not been so cruel. If only Edwin could see the baby now, he would love her as I do. To her horror, Emma found she could not expunge his face, or his name. She had not thought of him for weeks and then only with the most intense hatred. He had barely crossed her mind when the baby was born. Emma was so involved with these unparalleled thoughts of Edwin Fairley that she became distracted and her guard was lowered.

Blackie was calling from the other side of the room, ‘And what will ye be calling Tinker Bell, then? Have ye thought of a name?’

So preoccupied was Emma, she did not think twice. Edwin’s name was on the tip of her tongue and she said automatically, thoughtlessly, ‘Edwina-’ As that name fell from her lips Emma froze by the sink, so aghast was she at her own carelessness. What made me say that name? she wondered, furious with herself. She had never had intention calling the baby after Edwin. She had decided to name the baby Laura weeks ago. Emma felt as if the blood was draining out of her.

Blackie’s jaw had dropped open and he was staring at her back. He could see that she held herself tensely and her shoulder blades were protruding through the thin silk of the white blouse she was wearing. He repeated the name Edwina to himself and then, without having to give it a second thought, he knew who the father of her child was. Edwin Fairley. There was no doubt in his mind about that. Everything fell neatly into place. Why had he not thought of Edwin before? It was so obvious. And he had been suspicious of her story for months, convinced that the fastidious Emma would not have entangled herself with a village yokel. Blackie’s heart ached for Emma and he longed to console her. But he held himself in check. Although her face was turned away from him, Blackie was now acutely conscious of her embarrassment and he guessed that she had just made a dreadful slip of the tongue. He was positive she had never meant to call the child Edwina. Why would she so blatantly spell it out for him? No, the canny Emma would never do that. It had been a mistake she could not now gracefully correct.

And so Blackie adopted an unconcerned tone and said, with a show of gaiety, ‘And where did ye find such an elegant name, mavourneen? In one of them illustrated magazines, I am thinking. Sure and it is real fancy, but very fitting for me darlin’ Tinker Bell. I like it. Sure and I do.’

Emma nodded, not trusting herself to speak. Blackie fussed with the towel, draping it over his arm, and then he tested the water, taking his time so that she could regain her composure. ‘Now then, I’m ready,’ he said with a bright smile. ‘Hold the babe forward, Emma…Yes, that’s right. Good, mavourneen.’

Somewhat recovered, Emma said, ‘Her full name is to be Ed-Edwina.’ She almost faltered, then swallowed and went on more steadily, ‘Laura Shane-’

‘Shane!’ interrupted Blackie, his surprise evident.

‘Yes, after you. I can’t very well call her Desmond or Patrick, and Blackie would seem odd, now wouldn’t it?’

Blackie chuckled. ‘True! True! Well, ‘tis flattered that I am and right pleased, Emma. So, let’s commence.’ He dipped his fingers in the bowl of water with a flourish and made the sign of the cross on the baby’s forehead.

‘Wait a minute,’ Emma exclaimed, her eyes stretching widely. ‘I’m not a Roman Catholic and neither is the baby. In the Church of England the vicar just sprinkles the water on in drips. He doesn’t make a cross. We must do it properly. Start again, please.’

Blackie bit back a smile. For a so-called atheist she was being mighty particular. ‘Sure and I understand, Emma.’ He wiped the cross off the baby’s brow with the towel and resumed. Once again he dipped his large brown fingers in the water and ceremoniously sprinkled a few drops on the child, who stared up at him unblinkingly.

‘I christen thee Edwina Laura Shane Harte. In the name of God the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost.’ Blackie crossed himself and then he bent down and kissed the baby. He smiled at Emma, and kissed her, too. ‘There ye are, mavourneen. The baby is christened. Does that make ye feel happier?’

‘Yes, Blackie. Thank you. It was beautiful. And just look at the baby. She’s smiling again and she didn’t even cry when you dropped the water on her. I’m going to make sure she has a good life. The best of everything, Blackie.’ She turned her face to his and her gaze was solemn. ‘She’ll have the most beautiful clothes and go to the best schools and she’ll be a real lady. I’m going to make sure of that. Nothing is going to stop me.’ The serious expression eased into a tender smile. ‘I wonder what she’ll look like when she’s older, Blackie. What do you think?’

A Fairley, that’s a certainty, Blackie mused, regarding the child objectively. The signs were already there, as young as she was. He said, ‘She’ll be lovely, Emma. Aye, she will indeed. But put her back in the cot, and get out Laura’s bottle of port wine. I think the least we can do is to be drinking a toast to the baby.’

‘Oh, Blackie, do you think that’s all right? Laura might be annoyed if we dip into her-’

‘Don’t be silly, Emma,’ Blackie cried through his laughter. ‘She won’t care. And anyway, I’ll go out later to the offlicence and buy another bottle. We have to be toasting Edwina, ye know. It’s the custom.’

Emma nodded and did as he asked. They toasted the baby with the ruby port, which Emma had poured into two small glasses. ‘May she be healthy, wealthy, and wise,’ pronounced Blackie, taking a sip, ‘and I won’t be adding beautiful, for we know she’ll be taking after her mother!’

Emma smiled at him with great fondness, and they sat down in front of the fire, drinking the wine, lost in their own thoughts. After a short while Emma said, ‘We can’t tell Laura about the christening. She wouldn’t approve. She wouldn’t think it proper. She’d also wonder why I didn’t go to the church.’

Blackie nodded and frowned. ‘Aye, ye are right about that. Still, what are ye going to be telling her, Emma? After all, she doesn’t know the truth. She’ll be thinking it funny if ye don’t have the bairn baptized.’

‘I’ll tell her I’m having it done in Ripon,’ said Emma, recognizing as she spoke that she had finally made her decision about the baby’s immediate future.

‘Ripon! Why there?’ Blackie threw her a curious glance.

Emma looked at him carefully, cleared her throat, and said softly, ‘Because that’s where I’m going next week with the baby. I’m taking her to my cousin Freda’s.’ Blackie seemed baffled and Emma explained quickly. ‘She will live there with my cousin. You know I can’t keep the baby with me when I have to work. You said that yourself months ago.’

Blackie’s eyes narrowed. ‘Have ye been in touch with ye cousin, then? Has she agreed to take Edwina in?’

‘No. I was afraid to write, in case she turned me down. But if I arrive there with the baby I know she won’t do that,’ Emma said, speaking in the most assured voice she could summon. ‘Freda’s a good woman, Blackie, and she was very close to my mother, even though she is much younger. She’s a motherly sort and she loves children. She has two little ones of her own. I just know she won’t refuse me when she sees the baby. And I shall pay her for looking after Edwina.’

Blackie sighed. ‘Aye, I see the practical side of the idea, but won’t ye be missing the child, Emma?’

‘Oh yes, I will, Blackie. I will! But as soon as I’m on my feet, I shall bring Edwina back to live with me. In the meantime, I shall go to see her once or twice a month.’

Blackie shook his head, looking sorrowful, and his Celtic soul ached that she had to be separated from her child. But he said cheerfully, ‘And when do ye intend to be going to Ripon?’

Emma bit her lip. ‘I shall take the baby over there next week, before I go back to work. On Thursday. I’ll stay with Freda that night and all day on Friday, to be with the baby a bit longer.’ She saw the dismay on his face and cried, ‘I have to do it! I have no choice!’ Tears were imminent and her voice shook.

‘I know, Emma, I know. Don’t be getting yeself upset,’ Blackie responded sympathetically. He leaned forward and squeezed her arm. ‘It’s the wisest course under the circumstances.’

‘At least she will be with a member of my family and she’ll be in the fresh country air,’ Emma pointed out firmly, as if to convince herself, as well as Blackie, of the wisdom of her decision.

Blackie said, ‘But what about ye dad? Won’t ye cousin be telling him about the baby?’

‘No, she won’t, if I ask her not to,’ Emma countered in a confident tone, hoping she was right. ‘She knows what he’s like, and she’ll protect me for my mother’s sake. They were like sisters.’ Emma looked him right in the eye and went on, ‘I shall tell her the whole truth, Blackie, about the boy from the village letting me down and running off to the navy. I’ll have to.’

‘Aye, I expect ye will,’ remarked Blackie, now convinced that the truth had been slightly bent. Then another thought struck him forcibly, and he reflected for a minute, before saying, ‘Emma, ye mentioned the birth certificate before. Ye will have to go and register the bairn’s birth with the registrar in Leeds, to get the certificate. And ye’ll have to give the father’s name. It’s the law.’

Emma’s face darkened with distress. She had already thought of this herself and it bothered her not a little. She held herself very still, not answering.

‘I can guess what ye are thinking, mavourneen. When the registrar asks ye for the name, ye are going to say “father unknown”, are ye not?’

‘Yes,’ she acknowledged softly.

‘Aye, I knew it. Well, I think ye should be putting me down as the father,’ he said emphatically.

Emma was thunderstruck. ‘Oh, Blackie, I can’t! I won’t! Why should you have that responsibility?’

His piercing stare was unwavering. ‘Do ye want to give the name of the real father, Emma?’ he asked pointedly.

‘No!’ she exclaimed, her eyes flaring.

‘Well, then, wouldn’t it be better to have my name on the certificate? The paper will still show that she’s illegitimate, I realize that. But at least a name, such as it is, would look better than “father unknown”. Think on that one, mavourneen.’

‘But, Blackie-’

He held up his hand to silence her and there was a reproving look on his face. ‘Do ye know how often ye say “But, Blackie”? Always disagreeing with me, ye are. It’s settled,’ he announced in a voice that forbade argument. ‘And I shall come with ye to the registrar’s office, just to make sure ye be doing as I say.’ He stretched out his hand and patted her arm again. ‘Ye’ll see, it will be fine, Emma. And I am happy to take the responsibility, as ye call it, for Tinker Bell.’ He grinned crookedly. ‘I mean Edwina Laura Shane. Me darlin’ godchild, so to speak.’

Emma’s eyes filled up. She fumbled for her handkerchief and blew her nose, striving to curb her emotions. ‘You’re so good, Blackie. I don’t know why you do so much for me.’

‘Because I care about ye, Emma, and the wee one. Somebody’s got to look out for ye both in this hard world, I am thinking,’ he remarked softly, his affection reflected in his bright black eyes.

‘You might regret it later. I mean, regret putting your name on the birth certificate.’

Blackie laughed dismissively. ‘I never regret anything I be doing, mavourneen mine. I’ve found regrets to be a sinful waste of time.’

A brief smile touched Emma’s lips. She knew it was fruitless to attempt to dissuade him once his mind was made up. He, too, could be very stubborn. She stared into the fire reflectively. ‘I must keep the birth certificate in a safe place. Locked up. Laura must never see it,’ she said. Her voice was so quiet it was almost inaudible.

Blackie was not certain he had heard correctly. He leaned forward and asked, ‘What was that?’

She gave him the benefit of a long knowing look. ‘I said, Laura must never see the birth certificate. Because your name will be on it.’

‘I don’t care about that,’ exclaimed Blackie. ‘But she shouldn’t see it, for the simple reason that she’d know then ye are single, and that the babe’s illegitimate. Did I not tell Laura ye were married to a sailor called Winston Harte? Pack of lies I told that poor girl. Ye are forgetting things, Emma.’ He sighed heavily. ‘That’s the trouble with lying.’

Emma flushed. ‘They were only white lies. I told them for the baby’s sake, and you agreed all along that I was right,’ she retorted fiercely. ‘And I’m not forgetting anything. I was only thinking that I must protect you. And I don’t want Laura to be hurt. She would be, if she saw your name on the birth certificate. She might believe you really were the father.’

‘So what?’ Blackie demanded, further bewildered.

‘Laura loves you, Blackie.’

‘Loves me! Laura! That’s a lot of cod’s wallop, mavourneen.’ He burst out laughing and shook his head disbelievingly. ‘Hell could freeze over before Laura would look at me twice. I don’t have to tell ye that she’s a staunch Roman Catholic, and devout, and she knows I’m lapsed. Come on, Emma. That’s a daft idea. Loves me, indeed! On the heads of the Blessed Saints I do swear ye have lost ye mind.’

Emma threw him a fond but impatient look. ‘You are a great fool, Blackie O’Neill. You can’t see what’s staring you in the face. Of course she loves you. Very much.’

‘Did she tell ye that?’ he cried, his glance quizzical.

‘No, she didn’t. But I know she does.’ Observing his sceptical expression, Emma added vehemently, ‘I just know, deep down inside, that she does!’

Blackie could not help laughing again. ‘Ye are very imaginative, Emma. Sure and ye are. I don’t believe it at all, at all.’

Emma shrugged resignedly. ‘You don’t have to, but it’s true,’ she asserted strongly. ‘I can tell by the way she looks at you, and talks about you sometimes. I bet if you asked her, she’d marry you.’

Blackie was stunned. A peculiar look settled on his face, one Emma could not read. Emma said hurriedly, ‘You mustn’t tell her I’ve said anything, though. She’d be upset if she thought we’d been talking about her, behind her back. And anyway, she’s never actually told me she loves you. That’s just my opinion.’

Still Blackie did not answer. Emma rose and went over to him. She touched his massive shoulder lightly and he looked up at her, his eyes suddenly twinkling. ‘Promise me you won’t mention it to Laura, Blackie. Please.’

‘I promise I won’t mention it to a living breathing soul,’ he said, patting the small hand resting on his shoulder. Satisfied that he would keep his word, Emma nodded and glided into the kitchen. ‘I’ve got to start preparing things for tea,’ she called over her shoulder.

‘Aye, mavourneen,’ he said, and threw another log on the fire. Blackie settled comfortably in the wing chair and lit a cigarette, chuckling to himself from time to time, vastly amused at Emma’s words and not at all convinced of their veracity. ’Tis romantic girlish notions Emma is harbouring, he thought, and drew deeply on his Woodbine. Nonetheless, he discovered she had given him something disturbing to think about. He sat dwelling on the possibility of Laura loving him; an idea that previously had never entered his mind and one so staggering he was shaken. Slowly, numerous things Laura had said and done in the past few years came back to him with vividness; things he had considered irrelevant but which now assumed significance in the light of Emma’s comments. Was Emma correct in her conjectures about Laura’s involvement with him? For the life of him he did not know. Yet Emma was nobody’s fool. She was perceptive and, in fact, he had often been startled at her insight into people. Bemused, he ruminated on Laura Spencer and he discovered he found it quite difficult to gauge the depth and extent of his own feelings for her. Oh, he loved her. There was no doubt about that. It was virtually impossible not to love that gentle and tenderhearted girl. But how did he love her? Was he in love with her? Did he want her for his wife, as the mother of his children? Did he want to share the rest of his life, and his bed, with her? Was it she who was the object of his masculine desire and passion? He shook his head, nonplussed, unable to isolate and understand his true feelings for Laura. And what about Emma? He loved her, too. He had always believed this had been merely a fraternal interest; now he wondered if he had unconsciously deluded himself. He remembered the night in the Mucky Duck when he had asked her to marry him, out of a sense of protectiveness; yet that night he had seen that she was a highly alluring young woman. Blackie found he was jolted into annoyance with himself. Could it be, was it conceivable, that he actually loved Emma in the way a virile man loves a woman, with all his heart and his very soul? He strove to examine, with objectivity, his emotional involvement with both girls, only to find that he was even more perplexed and confused than ever, on the horns of a dilemma. How can a man love two women at the same time? he asked himself with mounting irritation. He ran his hand through his hair distractedly. This is a fine kettle of fish, Blackie O’Neill, he said to himself. The gaze in his black and brilliant eyes was inward and contemplative, as he endeavoured to answer these disquieting questions which Emma’s conversation had posed. But the answers eluded him maddeningly, and they would continue to do so for some considerable length of time.

THIRTY-TWO

The main street of Fairley village was deserted, it being two o’clock on Sunday afternoon. It was a cool April day and, as was normal at this time of year, the sky was heavy with cinereous clouds that rolled in a gathering mass along the crest of those black implacable moors which stretched in eerie silence towards the smudged horizon. The watery sun had retreated hours ago and the village looked inhospitable, the grey stone walls and slate rooftops of the cottages fusing into the forbidding semi-industrial landscape, an unrelieved etching of monotones beneath that sullen metallic sky. The wind blowing in from the nearby limestone dale country was tinged with North Sea rain and a shower was imminent. It had already poured earlier, and the roofs and cobblestones held a silvery sheen that was glassy and stark in the dismal environment.

To Emma, climbing the steep hill, the village appeared smaller than she remembered, oddly diminished, but she had broader comparisons to draw upon now, and she recognized that her eyes had become accustomed to the imposing buildings of Leeds, the fine establishments of Armley. The depressing aspects of her surroundings were dimmed, became irrelevant, for she was filled with happiness. She smiled to herself. She was looking forward to seeing her father and Frank, and this reunion, so yearningly longed for, was uppermost in her thoughts, as it had been for days. They did not know she was coming today; she had not written to announce her impending visit, wanting to give them a lovely surprise. Her anticipation was fully revealed on her eager and shining face. Frank must have grown in the past ten months, she thought. She wondered how they would look, little Frank, now thirteen, and her father. She herself had taken great pains with her appearance, before setting out that morning, determined to look her very best. This was partially prompted by her sense of pride, but also to prove to her father that she had been successful out on her own in the world. She was wearing the red silk dress and the black wool coat which had formerly belonged to Olivia Wainright, and new black button boots purchased only last week. The shopping bag she carried contained thoughtfully selected presents: socks, a shirt, and a tie for her dad, plus his favourite pipe tobacco; socks, a shirt, and writing materials for Frank, along with an edition of David Copperfield. And, carefully placed on top of these things there was a bunch of spring flowers for her mother’s grave. She had dipped into her precious savings to buy everything, but she had done so joyfully and with love; and in her black reticule there were three crisp pound notes for her father, to help with the family expenses.

The hill was steep, but Emma climbed it easily. There was a decided bounce to her step and she felt wonderfully alive. Optimistic as she was by nature, Emma was now inordinately confident of the future.

The baby was comfortably settled with her cousin Freda in Ripon. As Emma had predicted to Blackie, Freda had been more than willing to take Edwina in, and for as long as Emma wished. If she had been surprised at Emma’s unexpected arrival on her doorstep, or shocked at her story, the loving and compassionate Freda had not betrayed this at all. She had taken everything in her stride. Her welcome had been genuine and she had fussed over Emma and commented ecstatically on Edwina’s prettiness and her docile temper. She had promised to care for the child as if she were her own, and had faithfully pledged to keep Emma’s circumstances a secret from Jack Harte, with whom she was not on very good terms, and whom, she explained, she had not heard from since Elizabeth’s death in 1904. When Emma had left Ripon to return to Armley she was in a calmer frame of mind and, although she was saddened to leave the child, her confidence in Freda, who was so like her mother, had helped to assuage her wistfulness considerably. She knew Edwina was in capable hands, and that she would be looked after and cherished with complete devotion.

Now, as she passed the White Horse halfway up the hill, Emma quickened her steps, not wishing to encounter any of the men or boys from the village, those perennial stragglers who indulged in a last pint and never left the pub before two o’clock. They might appear at any moment on their way home for a late Sunday lunch. She was only a few steps past the pub when she heard the door open and the sound of raucous voices echoing in the chilly air, as a handful of men staggered out into the streets, vociferously merry with the vast amounts of beer they had consumed. Emma hurried faster.

‘Emma!’

Her heart dropped and she had the urge to run, reluctant to become embroiled in a conversation or to expose herself to curious questions from the locals. She increased her pace, without looking back. Drunken louts, she thought disdainfully.

‘Emma! For God’s sake wait. It’s me. Winston!’

She stopped abruptly and swung around, her face lighting up. Her elder brother, resplendent in his naval uniform, was chasing up the street after her, waving his white sailor hat in his hand, his mates forgotten. They were staring after Winston, mouths agape, ogling Emma poised on the hill. Winston panted up to her. He threw his arms around her and hugged her to him, showering her face and her hair with kisses. A warm flush of happiness swept through her and she clung to him tightly, her love for him as fierce and as real as ever. With a sharp stab she realized how much she had missed him.

After a few seconds clutched in this tight embrace, they pulled away and automatically stared at each other, their eyes searching, questioning. Emma caught her breath as she looked up at Winston. His face had always been beautiful, but in an almost girlish way. Now it was extraordinarily and staggeringly handsome. Since she had last seen him he had matured. The high cheekbones, the wide brow, the straight nose, the generous mouth, and the well-shaped chin were all as finely drawn as ever, and yet they appeared much less delicate. There was strength in his face that bespoke his enormous masculinity. And those cornflower-blue eyes, widely set below the arched black brows and fringed with thick and curling black lashes, were brighter than she remembered, positively blinding in the cold northern light. His black hair was blowing in the breeze and his perfect white teeth flashed in his fresh-complexioned face as he smiled at her. He had grown and filled out. He was practically as tall as their father, and wide-shouldered and muscular. He’s too handsome for his own good, Emma thought. Women must adore him but men must surely hate him, she decided, and then wondered how many girls had already fallen at his feet, how many broken hearts lay scattered in his ports of call. He would be irresistible to the opposite sex, she saw that only too clearly. She marvelled to herself that this incredible specimen of manhood was her brother; the skinny, hot-tempered boy who had teased her unmercifully, pulled her hair, quarrelled with her and fought her, but who had always been her staunch ally when necessary, and whom she had never ceased to secretly worship.

Winston, gazing back at Emma, was thinking: She’s changed enormously. There’s something very different about her. She’s more self-assured, even worldly. By God, she’s a stunning girl. He corrected himself. No, Emma is a woman now, and ripe for the plucking. A feeling of jealous possessiveness raced through him, was so powerful, so searing he was shaken at the intensity of his feelings. The brightest man breathing is not good enough for my sister. And he recognized then that he truly adored her. In point of fact, that was to be the major problem all of his life. No other woman would ever measure up to his sister in his eyes.

‘You look wonderful,’ Emma said at last, breaking the silence, her eyes overflowing with the tenderest of lights.

‘So do you, little sister,’ Winston said. ‘Quite grown-up, too.’ He smiled at her lovingly and with pride, and then the smile congealed. His joy was dampened when he remembered how poor little Frank had grieved for Emma, was still grieving for her, and a furious glint entered those startling eyes. He grabbed her arm roughly. ‘Hey, our Emma, where the hell have you been all these months? We’ve been worried to death! How could you run off like that?’

There was a hidden smile on Emma’s face. ‘Oh, the pot’s calling the kettle black, is it?’

Winston glared. ‘I’m a man. That’s different. You’d no business sneaking off that way. You were needed at home.’

‘Don’t shout, Winston,’ said Emma. ‘Dad knows where I’ve been. I’ve written to him regularly, and sent him money.’

Winston was scrutinizing her closely and scowling darkly. ‘Yes, but you never put an address on those letters-where we could write back. That was wrong of you, Emma.’

‘Dad knows I’ve been travelling with my lady, Mrs John Smith of Bradford. Please, Winston, don’t look so angry, and let go of my arm. You’re hurting me.’

‘Sorry,’ Winston muttered, and released his powerful grip. He took hold of her hand. ‘Come on, don’t let’s stand here, making a spectacle of ourselves. I can see half a dozen lace curtains twitching.’ He almost dragged her up to Top Fold.

‘I expect you have a ship now, don’t you, Winston?’ asked Emma warmly, hoping to dispel her brother’s belligerent mood.

‘Yes,’ said the laconic Winston.

Undismayed by his curtness, Emma persisted, ‘Where are you stationed, Winston?’

‘Scapa Flow.’

‘Well, you must give me your address, so that I can write to you every week. Would you like me to?’

‘If you want.’

‘Yes, I do. And I’ll give you my address. You’ll write back to me, won’t you, Winston?’

‘Yes.’

Emma sighed inside. However, she knew him well enough not to be discouraged by his gruff answers. The evasiveness in her letters about her whereabouts over the past months obviously still rankled with him. She hoped her father would not have the same attitude, that he was not harbouring any grudges. Now she said gaily, ‘It must be exciting, being in the navy. Seeing different places, I’m ever so glad you joined up, Winston, really I am. Why, you can see the world, just like you always dreamed about doing when you were little.’ He did not respond, but Emma saw a softening on his face, and she pressed, ‘It is exciting, isn’t it?’

Winston was incapable of remaining angry with his beloved Emma for long. Also, he knew his brusqueness with her was really caused by his own growing apprehension. He must not upset her unduly. Not now when within minutes she was about to suffer a terrible shock. And so he adopted a cheeriness he did not feel, and said, ‘Yes, you’re right. It is exciting. I love the navy, Emma. I’m learning a lot. Not just about life at sea, but many other things, educational things. It’s fascinating. I aim to do well in the navy, Emma.’

His last statement filled her with pleasure. She opened her mouth, but before she could comment, he rushed on, ‘I’ll tell you something I’ve never told anybody else, Emma. I was a bit scared at first.’

Emma’s eyes flew open. ‘You scared? I don’t believe it.’

Winston was relieved he had managed to divert her from asking any trying questions about the family. He cleared his throat. ‘Well, I was,’ he confided, a wry smile playing on his mouth. ‘It was the night I boarded my ship for the first time. It was a cold night, and dark and raining, and they moved us from Shotley Barracks, opposite Harwich, to Sheerness. The picket boat drew up to the battleship, and I was going up the accommodation ladder to the quarterdeck when I saw these giant brass letters on the bulkhead shining in the faint light. “Fear God, Honour the King”, they said. I got a funny sensation in the pit of my stomach. I was awed, Emma, and fearful. Those words were so-so-meaningful, so serious. Powerful, really. I suddenly understood about the great traditions of the British navy and all they stood for. The honour, the courage, and the glory inherited from men like Drake and Raleigh and Nelson. I realized I was in the service of my King and country. I felt a pride, a sense of duty. That night I think I began to take the navy seriously. It was no longer simply an escape route from Fairley, or a lark.’

Emma was both impressed and moved by his words. ‘I’m proud of you, Winston. I bet Dad is, too.’

This remark wiped the smile off his face. ‘Hurry up,’ he said, striding out.

Emma had to run to keep up with him. ‘Well, Dad is, isn’t he?’ she asked cheerfully, ignoring his glum expression, smiling widely.

‘I don’t know,’ mumbled Winston, and he kept his head averted.

‘Did you tell him all that? About the traditions of the navy and the way you felt? It would please him, Winston. It really would. He was a good soldier himself when he was in the Boer War and he’s very patriotic, you know.’

Attempting to circumvent any discussion about their father, Winston said, ‘And what about you, Emma? How have you been? I notice you are talking very fancy, for one thing.’

Amused, she peeked at him out of the corner of her eye and said in a jocular tone, ‘So are you, Winston Harte. Do you think I’m deaf?’

‘No, I don’t. I’ve been paying attention to myself, Emma. In every way. And I don’t just mean by speaking properly, either. I’m going in for promotion,’ he announced. ‘You don’t think I want to stay a rating, do you? I’m moving up the ladder. I’ll be an able seaman next, then a leading seaman. Eventually, I intend to be a petty officer, maybe even a chief petty officer one day.’

‘Not an admiral?’ Emma teased.

‘I know my limitations,’ he retorted, but his voice was kind. He put his arm around her shoulder protectively, in the way he had done when they were children. She was immediately aware of his unspoken love. Emma smiled inside, thinking how wonderful it was to be with Winston again, and in a few seconds she would be hugging her father, and little Frank, and it would be like old times.

They hurried down Top Fold in silence, and when they reached the garden gate leading to the cottage Emma’s heart lifted with happiness and she extracted herself from Winston’s embrace and flew up the flagged path, propelled by her mounting excitement. She did not see the heartsick expression clouding Winston’s face.

Frank had his back to the door, and he was peering into the oven set to one side of the fireplace, when Emma walked in. ‘Yer late again, our Winston. Me Aunty Lily’ll play pop if she knows. I’ve tried ter keep yer dinner warm, but it looks a bit funny now. Still, here it is, Winston.’ The younger boy straightened up and swung around. He almost dropped the plate he was holding the moment he saw Emma. His mouth sagged and his eyes became so huge they filled his narrow face like liquid pools of grey light. He was dumbfounded. Then he banged the plate down on to the table negligently and sped across the room. He flung himself into Emma’s outstretched arms with such velocity he almost knocked her over. She held him close to her, stroking his hair. He began to cry, sobbing as if his heart would break. She was at once startled and baffled, and she tried to soothe him.

‘Frank, lovey, don’t cry so. I’m here, safe and well, and with presents for you, too. Presents you’ll like, Frank.’

He raised his freckled and damp face to hers and said, with a snuffle, ‘I’ve missed yer, Emma. Ever so much. I thought yer’d never come back. Never ever again.’

‘Don’t be silly. I’ll always come back to see you. I’ve missed you, too, Frank. Now, come along, stop crying and let me take off my coat.’

Winston had thrown his cap on to a chair, and unable to look at Emma in his anxiety, he stared with distaste at the food on the plate. It had long ago coagulated into a mass of limp Yorkshire pudding, frizzled roast beef, mashed potatoes, and Brussels sprouts, all running together in a rapidly drying gravy. ‘I don’t feel very hungry,’ he muttered in a low voice. Winston discovered to his dismay that he had lost his nerve. How could he tell her? All the right words had fled, leaving his mind empty.

‘Me Aunt Lily’ll be mad if yer don’t eat yer dinner,’ warned Frank.

Emma hung up her coat behind the door and returned to the fireplace with the shopping bag. She placed the flowers in the sink and pulled out the presents for Frank, hoping to bring a smile to that cheerless little face. ‘These are for you, love,’ she said with a bright smile, and then addressed her older brother. ‘I’m sorry, Winston, I didn’t bring you anything. I didn’t know you’d be home on leave. But never mind, this will come in useful, I’m sure.’ As she spoke she opened her reticule and took out one of the new pound notes. ‘Take this, Winston. You can buy yourself some cigarettes and a pint or two.’

She carried the presents over to Frank, who accepted them from her silently. Then his eyes lit up. ‘Thank yer, Emma. Just what I needed.’ His pleasure was undisguised.

Now Emma busied herself at the Welsh dresser, taking out the other items. ‘These are for Dad,’ she said, her voice light. ‘Where is he?’ She glanced from Winston to Frank, a look of joyous expectation on her face.

Winston put the knife and fork down on the plate with a loud clatter, and Frank stood gazing at her vacantly, clutching his presents. Neither of them spoke.

‘Where’s our dad?’ asked Emma. They still did not reply and Winston dropped his eyes again but looked up quickly, flashing a warning to Frank, who had blanched.

‘What’s wrong? Why are you both so quiet?’ This was a fierce demand and fear began to trickle through her veins. She grabbed hold of Winston’s arm urgently and brought her face closer to his, peering into his eyes, ‘Where is he, Winston?’

Winston cleared his throat nervously. ‘He’s with our mam, Emma.’

Emma experienced a little burst of relief. ‘Oh, you mean he’s gone to visit her grave. I wish I’d been a bit sooner and I could have gone with him. I think I’ll run up there now, and catch him before he-’

‘No, Emma, you can’t do that,’ Winston cried, jumping up. He put his arm around her and led her to a chair. ‘Sit down a minute, Emma.’

Winston lowered himself into the chair opposite her. He took her hand in his and held it tightly. ‘You didn’t understand me, love,’ Winston began in a tiny voice that was so faint she could hardly hear it. ‘I didn’t mean our dad had gone to visit Mam’s grave. I meant he was there with her. Lying next to her in the graveyard.’

Winston watched her attentively, ready to move towards her if necessary, the desire to insulate her pain uppermost in his mind. But she seemed uncomprehending.

‘Our dad’s dead,’ said Frank, with his usual childlike bluntness. His voice was leaden with sorrow.

‘Dead,’ whispered Emma, incredulous. ‘He can’t be dead. It’s not possible. I would have known if he had died. I would have known inside. In my heart. I just know I would.’ As she uttered these words she realized from their grim expressions that it was true. Emma’s face crumpled. Tears welled into her eyes and spilled out over the rims and rolled down her cheeks silently, falling on to the front of the red silk dress in small splashes.

Winston’s eyes were blurred and he wept as he had wept when his father had died. Now his tears were for Emma. She had been so much closer to their father than either he or Frank. He brushed his hand across his eyes resolutely, resolving to be stalwart. He must try to console her, to alleviate her grief. He knelt at Emma’s feet and wrapped his arms around her body. She fell against him, sobs wracking her. ‘Oh, Winston! Oh, Winston! I never saw him again. I never saw him again!’ she wailed.

‘There, there, love,’ Winston said, stroking her hair, murmuring softly to her, pressing her to his chest, comforting and tender. After a long time her sobbing began to diminish and slowly subsided altogether.

Frank was making tea at the sink, swallowing his own tears. He had to be brave, a big boy. Winston had told him that. But Emma’s terrible distress had infected him and his shoulders jerked in silent misery. Winston became conscious of the boy’s wretchedness and he beckoned to Frank, stretching out one arm. Frank skittered across the floor and buried his head against Winston, who encircled his sister and brother in his arms, lovingly, and with great devotion. He was the head of the family now and responsible for them both. The three of them stayed huddled together in silent commiseration, drawing solace from their closeness, until eventually all of their tears were used up.

The kitchen was full of gently shifting shadows, the greying light outside intruding bleakly through the glass panes, the flames in the grate meagre as the logs burned low. There was no sound except the sibilant hissing of the kettle on the hob, the murmurous ticking of the old clock, the pattering of spring rain as it hit the windows. Winston’s voice sounded hollow in this dolorous silence. ‘It’s just the three of us now. We’ve got to stick together. We’ve got to be a family. That’s what Dad and Mam would want. We must look after each other. Emma, Frank, do you both hear me?’

‘Yes, Winston,’ whispered Frank.

Dazed and sorrowing, Emma drew herself up and wiped her face with one hand. She was white with anguish. Her eyes were swollen and red-rimmed, and her mouth quivered, but she took steely control of herself, smiling at Winston weakly. She nodded her understanding of his words. She could not speak.

‘Frank, please bring the tea over to the table,’ Winston said, rising wearily. He sat in the chair opposite Emma and took out a cigarette. He looked at the packet of Woodbines and remembered, with a nostalgic twinge of sadness, how his father had always complained about his tab ends.

Emma pulled herself fully upright. She faced Winston. ‘Why didn’t you tell me straightaway, when I ran into you outside the White Horse?’ she murmured.

‘How could I, Emma? In the middle of the village street. I was so relieved to see you, I could only think how glad I was that you were safe and well. I was happy for a split second. And then I became afraid. That’s why I chattered on about the navy, and rushed you home the way I did. I knew you’d break down. I wanted you here, in this house, when you heard the bad news.’

‘Yes, you were right. You did the best thing. When did-did-our dad-’ She pressed her handkerchief to her face and endeavoured to suppress the sobs. She had been grief-stricken at her mother’s death, yet in a sense that had been anticipated for months. The news of her father’s passing away had been so unexpected she was devastated, in a state of awful shock.

‘He died five days after you left, last August,’ said Winston dully, dragging on his cigarette, his face a picture of despondency.

Emma turned a ghastly putty colour and her face was so rigid, so unmoving it might have been cut from stone. I never knew, she thought. All these months I’ve been writing to him. Writing terrible lies. And all the time he was dead, and buried in the cold earth. She clapped her hand over her mouth, choking back a sob, heaving in silence.

Winston eventually calmed her down again and Frank brought the tea. She took hold of the cup. Her hand shook so badly she had to put it down. She stared into space and finally managed to ask, ‘How did he die?’ Her voice was drained. She looked at Frank and then at Winston.

‘There was an accident,’ Winston said. ‘I was at Scapa Flow. Aunt Lily sent me a telegram and they let me come home on compassionate leave. We didn’t know where to find you, Emma. We kept thinking you’d be back in a few days. Hoping against hope. But-’

Emma was silent. She had no excuses. A sick dismay lodged in her stomach, and guilt mingled with her grief, which was absolute. After a few seconds she asked tremulously, ‘What kind of accident?’ She was determined to know everything now, however heartrending it was. She turned to Frank, who had seated himself next to her. ‘You were here before Winston arrived. Can you explain it to me? Would it be too hard for you, Frankie? Too painful, lovey?’

‘No, Emma. I can tell you.’ He gulped. ‘Winston said I have to be brave and strong and accept life’s hard knocks,’ he intoned in that serious voice he sometimes adopted. Her heart went out to him. He was such a little boy and he was trying to be so courageous.

‘You’re a good, brave boy, Frank. Tell me all about it. But take your time.’ She squeezed his hand reassuringly.

‘Well, yer see, Emma, that Saturday yer left, me and me dad was working at t’mill, as yer knows. Anyways, there was a fire and me dad got burned. On his back and his shoulders and legs. Third-degree burns, so Dr Mac said. And he breathed a lot of smoke.’

Emma’s blood ran cold as he was speaking. She shuddered, and her heart tightened as she imagined her father’s pain, the suffering he must undoubtedly have endured from his torturous injuries. She tried to steady herself, not wishing to disturb Frank, who was on the verge of tears again.

‘Are yer all right, our Emma?’ he asked solicitously.

‘Yes, Frank. Finish telling me.’

Speaking gravely, he gave her the precise details of the injuries their father had sustained, the care and attention he had received, the concern of Adam Fairley, the devotion of Dr Mac and his wife, and the doctors at the valley hospital.

When he had finished, Emma said in a choked voice, ‘How horrible for Dad to die like that, in such pain. I can’t bear to think about it. How awful it must have been for him.’

Frank eyed her carefully. ‘Me Aunty Lily said he didn’t want to live any more.’ His tone was hushed and his face was all bone and freckles, and he looked like a little old man to Emma.

She stared at him stupefied, her brows puckering. ‘What a weird and terrible thing for her to say about our dad. What did she mean, lovey?’

Frank looked at Winston, who nodded his assent. ‘We went ter see me dad every day,’ Frank explained. ‘Tom Hardy took us in the Squire’s carriage. Me dad didn’t seem ter get any better, Emma. On the Wednesday after the accident, when we was there, me Aunt Lily said ter him, “Now, Jack, yer can’t go on like this yer knows, lad. Yer’ve got ter make an effort. Or yer’ll be where poor Elizabeth is, in the cemetery.” And me dad, he stared at her ever so funny like, with a faraway look in his eyes. Then he said, “I wish I was with Elizabeth, Lily.” And when we was leaving, I kissed him and he said, “Goodbye, Frankie. Always be a good lad.” Just like that. Final like. And when he kissed Winston-’ Frank’s eyes flew to his brother. ‘Tell her what he said ter yer, Winston.’

Winston ran his hand through his hair. ‘Dad said to me, “Look after the young ‘uns, Winston. Stick together. And when Emma comes back from Bradford, tell her ter pick a sprig of heather for me and thee mam, up at the Top of the World, and keep it by her always for remembrance.” And then-’ Winston’s voice cracked at the memory. He took a deep breath, and continued softly, ‘Dad tried to get hold of my hand, Emma, but his were all burned and bandaged, so I brought my face down to his and he kissed me again, and he said, “I love thee all, Winston. But I love Elizabeth the best and I can’t live without her.” I began to cry, but Dad just smiled, and he had such a bright light in his eyes. They were as vivid as yours, Emma, and he looked happy. Really happy. He said I shouldn’t be sad, because he had me mam to go to. I thought he was a bit delirious, to tell you the truth. The doctor came in then and asked us to leave. It was on the way back to Fairley that Aunt Lily said he’d die of a broken heart and not his burns. That he’d never stopped grieving for our mam. He died that same night, Emma. Peacefully, in his sleep. It was as if he had wanted to die, like Aunt Lily said.’

Emma said, with a strangled sob, ‘Did he understand that I hadn’t returned from Bradford, and that’s why I wasn’t there, Winston?’

Her brother nodded. ‘Yes, and he wasn’t upset, Emma. He said he didn’t have to see you, because you were locked in his heart for ever.’

Emma closed her burning eyes and leaned back against the chair. My father needed me and I wasn’t here, she thought. If only I had waited a few days longer. She dreaded to hear more, but she could not stop herself probing for additional details. ‘It must have been a terrible fire. Obviously you weren’t hurt, Frank, thank heaven. Were many of the men injured? Who else died?’

‘No, I wasn’t hurt at all,’ Frank reassured her. ‘A few of the men had minor burns, but not serious. Only me dad died, Emma.’

Emma looked at him in puzzlement. ‘But if there was a fire at the mill, surely-’

‘The fire wasn’t in the mill building. It was in the big warehouse,’ Frank interrupted. ‘Me dad was crossing the yard and he spotted the flames raging. If he hadn’t gone inter the warehouse he wouldn’t have been hurt at all. Yer see, Master Edwin was down in the mill yard that day, and he was struggling ter open the door of the warehouse. He went inside. Me dad ran in after him, warning him it was ever so dangerous. A blazing bale was falling from the gantry, near Master Edwin. Me dad threw himself on top of Master Edwin, ter protect him. The bale hit me dad, and he saved Master Edwin’s life, and with selfless courage, so the Squire said.’

Emma went icy cold all over. ‘My father saved Edwin Fairley’s life!’ she cried with such ferocity even Winston was brought up sharply, aghast at her tone. ‘He died to save a Fairley! My father sacrificed himself for one of them!’ She spat out the words venomously. ‘I can’t believe it!’ she shouted. She began to laugh hysterically, and her bitterness rose up in her.

Her brothers were gaping at her incredulously. Frank cringed and drew away from her. Winston said, ‘But Emma, anybody would have done the same thing-’

‘Would they really!’ she stormed, leaping out of the chair. She stood in the centre of the kitchen, her volcanic rage a stupendous force in her slender body. ‘Would Squire Fairley? Or Master Gerald? Or Master Edwin?’ Again she spat out the names and with a complete and virulent loathing. ‘Would they have risked their lives to save our father’s? Never. Never, I tell you. Not in a million years. Oh God! I can’t stand it,’ she screamed, and her whole body vibrated with her fulminating fury.

‘Calm down. Calm down, Emma. You’ll make yourself sick. It happened, and nothing will change that,’ Winston said, shaken at her violent reaction, and afraid for her.

‘The Squire has been ever so decent,’ interposed Frank, also trying to mollify her. ‘He pays us me dad’s wages. A pound a week, we get. And he’s going to pay it until I’m fifteen-’

‘That’s mighty big of him!’ snarled Emma, her eyes threatening and ugly. ‘That’s forty-eight pounds a year.’ She laughed caustically. ‘He’s paid it for the past ten months, I suppose. And he’ll pay it for another two years. Very decent of him indeed!’ Her tone dripped acid. ‘Is that all my father’s life was worth to the Fairleys? Approximately one hundred and fifty pounds, give or take a few shillings. It’s a joke. A disgusting joke!’ She caught her breath, her chest heaving. ‘Is that all he was worth?’ she demanded once more.

Winston cleared his throat and said in his gentlest voice, ‘Well, he does a bit more than that. The Squire, I mean. He moved Frank into the mill offices and he’s being trained as a clerk. And every Sunday Aunt Lily goes up to the Hall and Cook gives her a basket of food. Enough for the whole week. For her and Frank. You see, Aunt Lily moved in here, Emma, to look after Frank. She gave up her cottage when Dad died. She’s gone up to the Hall now, Emma, to get the food. It helps a lot.’

‘A basket of food,’ she repeated scathingly, and laughed nastily. ‘Well, well, well. The Squire is being generous.’ She swung her head sharply and glowered at Frank. ‘I’m surprised you don’t choke on it, our Frank. I know I would!’

She turned on her heels and walked across the room, her head held high. Frank and Winston gazed at her stiff back and they exchanged worried glances. She put on her coat and took the flowers from the sink. She paused in the doorway and looked around. ‘I’m going to the cemetery,’ she said, her voice steely. ‘And then I shall go up to the Top of the World. I doubt there’s any heather there at this time of year, but I shall look. Anyway, I want to be by myself for a bit. I’ll be back later, and we can talk some more. Make some plans for Frank’s future. I’d like to see Aunty Lily as well.’

‘I’ll come with you,’ said Winston. ‘We’ll both come, won’t we, Frank?’ The younger boy nodded his acquiescence.

‘No!’ exclaimed Emma. ‘I told you I want to be alone. To think for a while.’

She closed the door softly behind her, before they had a chance to protest. She walked slowly up Top Fold, her feet dragging, a feeling of exhaustion swamping her. She headed for the small graveyard next to the church, aware of nothing except her overwhelming grief. Her face tightened and darkened, and there was a chilly light in her eyes as she looked ahead unwaveringly. And then her consummate hatred for the Fairleys, so close to the surface, rose up again and took hold of her, jostling against the grief for prominence in her mind. Was there no end to the pain that family would cause her? Was she to be cursed with them all the days of her life? Damn the Fairleys. All of them. Damn them! Damn them! Damn them! May they rot in hell!

THIRTY-THREE

And so it began: the most relentless pursuit of money ever embarked upon, the most grinding and merciless work schedule ever conceived and willingly undertaken by a seventeen-year-old girl.

By day, Emma worked at the mill; at night, after a hastily eaten light tea, she retreated to her bedroom at Laura’s and designed and cut and sewed clothes for a rapidly increasing clientele, local women informed by the devoted Laura of her flair with a needle, and her reasonable prices.

On Sundays, Emma baked fruit pies, bacon-and-egg pies, meat pies, and all manner of fancy pastries and cakes; she cooked mousses, jellies, custards, and trifles, using Olivia Wainright’s recipes, catering for parties and special occasions for the neighbours and, before long, the local gentry. When she was not engaged in her culinary endeavours for her growing number of customers, she bottled fresh fruits and vegetables; pickled onions, red cabbage, and walnuts; made chutneys and relishes and jams, which were painstakingly labelled and dated in her meticulous script, supplies being hoarded in Laura’s cellar to be sold later in her shop. Emma scrupulously lived on the weekly wage she earned at the mill as a weaver, and every penny she made from her dressmaking and catering was poured back into ‘the business’, as she called it, to purchase the necessary sewing materials and foodstuffs.

This worried Laura, but Emma pointed out, ‘You’ve got to spend money to make money,’ and she refused to listen to warnings about ‘getting in over your head’. However, it was not long before Emma began to show a small profit, much to her satisfaction, and Laura’s great relief.

Emma was dogged, ruthless with herself, scraping, saving, and working seven days a week and seven nights as well. She had no time to lose now. Her first goal-the first shop. And after that, more shops until she had a chain of shops just as Michael Marks had a chain of Penny Bazaars. But hers would be elegant stores which would cater to the carriage trade. That was where the real money was, where great quantities of money could be made by an astute retailer. To get that first shop Emma herself needed money. Money for the rent. Money for the fixtures and fittings and display stands. Money to purchase the stocks. Somehow she had to get that money and she determined that nothing and nobody would stop her. Emma had no doubts about her ultimate success. ‘Failure’ and ‘defeat’ were words now entirely erased from her vocabulary, for her belief in herself was absolute, and she knew, also, that she had one essential and most vital characteristic-an enormous capacity for work.

For a whole year, after she had learned of her father’s death, Emma took no time off whatsoever, except to visit Edwina one day every month. She regretted she did not have time to go to Ripon more often, as she had promised Freda, but she assuaged her terrible feelings of guilt and worry by reminding herself she was working for Edwina’s future.

Emma made only one trip to Fairley to see Frank during this time, and that was when Winston was home on leave again. They had decided, she and her elder brother, on that devastating April Sunday, that Frank should remain in Fairley with their Aunt Lily. It seemed to them both to be the best solution. He would continue to work in the mill offices until he was fifteen. At that time, they agreed, Frank could determine for himself whether or not he wished to pursue a writing career. If he did, Emma and Winston would somehow find a way for him to do this; perhaps working in Leeds, as a copy boy on one of the newspapers, learning the journalistic profession and attending night school; or perhaps they would have enough money between them to send him away to school.

‘Frank has been given a brain, Winston. A marvellous brain. And he has a talent for words. It’s a gift, really. It must not be wasted,’ Emma had proclaimed. ‘We must give him every chance, no matter what.’ Winston had nodded his concurrence. Emma had also made another decision that afternoon. She had informed Winston, and in no uncertain terms, that he must send Frank writing materials on a continuing basis. ‘Even if you have to forgo a few pints and cigarettes,’ she had ordered. She herself would undertake to supply Frank with a good dictionary and other books of her choice. He ought to be exposed to literature, such as the plays of Shakespeare, the novels of Dickens, Trollope, and Thackeray, philosophical works and histories. Victor Kallinski knew all about books and he would help her to select the most appropriate ones. Frank had been given his orders, too. He must study diligently, reading every night and in all of his free time, in order to further his education on his own. Aunt Lily was instructed to enforce this programme.

‘There will be no shirking, Frank, since Winston and I are making a special effort for you,’ Emma had warned in her sternest tone. Frank had been only too delighted to accept her offer, and he was not at all appalled by the rigid timetable she had worked out for him. He could not wait for the first books to arrive and he knew, too, that he would not change his mind about writing.

Emma had told Winston, Frank, and her Aunt Lily, only partial truths when she had given them her address in Armley. She had explained that she called herself Mrs Harte, and had invented a husband in the navy, simply as protection against unwanted and bothersome young men who might otherwise come courting. Winston had smiled at this ruse. He had actually congratulated her on her sense of self-preservation and told her she was being practical. Emma did not breathe a word about Edwina.

With Winston’s career in the navy progressing, Frank’s future temporarily settled, and Edwina safe in Ripon, Emma felt she was free to embark on her Plan with a capital P and devote herself solely to her own ambitions. She was unflagging and intensely involved in her work schedule, one that would have felled anyone else. She was oblivious to the passing of the days, her surroundings, and anything else that would intrude on the average girl’s thoughts.

Sometimes Emma was even oblivious to her friends. At first, Blackie had believed Emma would not be able to sustain the exhausting grind, and so he had quietly cautioned Laura not to interfere. But as the months dragged on and Emma persisted in her endless toil, they both became concerned. In particular, David Kallinski was worried to such an extent that one night he sought out Blackie at the Mucky Duck.

David had been tense, and without preamble had launched into the reason for his visit. ‘Emma won’t listen to me, Blackie. When I last spoke to her I suggested she should be a little kinder to herself, that she should only work during the week, like everyone else with any sense, and take the weekends off. I said something about doing everything in moderation, and do you know what she replied?’

Blackie had shaken his head, his own worry a reflection of David’s. ‘I’ve no idea, lad. She comes out with all sorts of strange remarks these days.’

‘She said to me, “In my opinion, moderation is a vastly overrated virtue, particularly when applied to work, David.” Can you believe it?’

‘Aye, I can. She’s stubborn, Emma is, David. And what ye be telling me doesn’t surprise me. I’ve tried talking to her meself lately, without success. She just won’t pay no mind to anybody,’ Blackie had grumbled.

‘Try talking to her again, Blackie. Please,’ David had implored. ‘Get her to take this Sunday off. I’ll come up to Armley, and we’ll go for a walk in the park, and listen to the band. Blackie, promise me you’ll at least try.’

‘By God, I’m going to do it, David! I shall be real forceful with her. I shall tell her now she is worrying us all. That ought to do the trick, I bet. I’m going to bring Emma to the park with Laura and me, even if I have to drag her there by the scruff of her neck!’

Now on the designated Sunday, a brilliantly sunny July afternoon, David Kallinski walked along Stanningley Road to the entrance of Armley Park. He was dressed in his best suit and a sparkling white shirt, set off by a deep wine-coloured cravat neatly knotted above his waistcoat, and fastened with an imitation-pearl pin. With his carefully pressed clothes, and his black boots shined to perfection, he had a well-groomed immaculate look about him. His thick black hair gleamed like jet and his handsome face, freshly barbered and smelling faintly of bay rum, was vibrant with pleasure at the thought of seeing Emma.

He entered the park through handsome iron gates, surmounted by the city’s coat of arms, and strolled down the principal approach, a wide carriageway leading to a large classically designed fountain. He stood at ease, his hands in his pockets, watching the soaring jets of water being discharged high into the air and cascading back down into the fountain, scintillating like hundreds of strings of tiny diamonds as they caught and held the sunlight. Fascinated by the intricately constructed fountain, he moved closer and read the inscription.

Erected by William Gott of Armley House In Commemoration of the Sixtieth Year of the Reign of Her Majesty Queen Victoria 1837 to 1897

The Gott family were immensely wealthy millowners and had endowed many statues to the city of Leeds. When he could afford it, David decided, he would make philanthropic donations that would help people, rather than building statues and fountains, which, however beautiful, were essentially useless.

He turned away and traversed the exquisitely landscaped gardens, laid out in Italian style and flanked by pathways avenued by young limes and elms and poplars, all offering shade on this scorching day. The gardens blazed with glorious colour. Stylized flower beds were awash with the abundant reds and pinks of the gay geranium, the deep purples and sharp yellows of the velvet-petalled pansy, the whites and pinks and mauves of the tall and graceful foxglove. Variegated greens, lushly inviting, sloped away into the distance and were highlighted with patches of pink and white thrifts, and the cheerful little nasturtium leapt like fire alongside the cool blues of the iris. Skirting the gardens were all manner of shrubs and trees, for Armley Park contained more specimens than any other park in Leeds; various hollies moved darkly polished branches towards the softer weigela with its applelike blossoms, while copper beeches, their leaves trembling with a burnished radiance in the warm breeze, towered majestically above mock orange blossom trees, festooned and dripping with the palest of blush pinks. Rockeried paths and open spaces of grass, as smooth as emerald satin, were enclosed by additional shrubs and trees, and richly planted borders of the vivid zinnia ranged down the flagged and gravelled walks.

Along these pathways moved starchly uniformed nannies pushing perambulators; courting couples; prettily gowned ladies accompanied by stiffly tailored husbands. David mingled amongst them, thinking how idyllic the scene was on this splendid day. He was glad to be alive with his future ahead of him and so many things to see and do, so much to achieve. Success beckoned and he was as positive as Emma that his own business enterprises would prosper.

And why not? This was the year of 1907, when King Edward’s reign was at its zenith and his popularity with his people unchallenged; a year when society flirted and danced and hunted and sailed and laughed away the days under King Bertie’s outgoing and benevolent rule; a year when the aristocracy made pleasure the god and gave no thought to the grim realities of life, or of war, for the Africa debacle was forgotten and peace in Europe was assured. In short, 1907 was a year when the ruling classes lived their carefree lives to the full, not considering the stony-faced world beyond the shores of their glorious and invincible England. And every Englishman, David Kallinski included, was lulled into a sense of false security by their debonair example. The years ahead were full of promise. Change was ripe in the air. Things could only get better. The future, for all, was bright with hope.

Consequently, David’s step was lively as he headed for the bandstand. This pagoda-like structure, a dubious tribute to England’s far-flung empire, added a touch of the exotic and the oriental to this typical English park, appeared oddly incongruous in that peaceful and gentle setting. Particularly so this afternoon, since it housed the visiting military band of the Grenadier Guards, bedazzling in their magnificent uniforms and shining from head to toe with the proverbial ‘spit and polish’ of the British army, and curiously out of place in that somewhat outlandish and whimsical replica of a mandarin’s teahouse.

He scanned the seats in front of the bandstand and, seeing no sight of his friends, settled himself in one of the small wroughtiron chairs. The band finished warming up and, after a few flourishes, they commenced their programme with the national anthem. As the concert continued thoughts of Emma drifted into David’s head and took complete hold of him. She was rarely out of his mind these days, and he realized his interest in her was not solely as a business associate, but as a woman. The tender but also passionate feelings he now harboured for her had crept up on him so stealthily he had been taken by surprise. And how did she feel about him? he wondered. Anything at all, other than affection and friendship? Was she too preoccupied with her work to give him a solitary thought? And she was married, a circumstance he had to face. The prospects were bleak for any man who had the bad luck to fall in love with a married woman. But love her he did. Where is that damned husband of hers? David asked himself. The missing husband had not appeared on the scene at all, not even when the baby was born. Sailors came home on leave, didn’t they? It was a mystery, but David had not, as yet, ventured to ask Emma about her husband, or whether she still loved him. David suspected that she did not. Emma never mentioned him, nor did she appear to miss him. David sighed. He had to admit that his hands were tied. He could not, in all conscience, proclaim himself to her, in view of her marital status.

David, lost in his reverie, was startled by Blackie’s voice at his shoulder. ‘There ye are, me boyo!’ David looked up quickly and was disappointed to see that only Laura Spencer accompanied Blackie. David stood and took Blackie’s outstretched hand. He bent down and kissed Laura affectionately on the cheek, and flashed her a gay smile that belied his real feelings. However, he was unable to keep the dejection out of his voice when he asked, ‘What happened to Emma? Where is she?’

‘Ah, David, ‘tis sorry I am to be telling ye that Emma declined the invitation. I tried, sure and I did, to persuade her to join us. But she was obstinate as always. She’s finishing a blasted frock for a lady at the Towers, and she wouldn’t budge an inch,’ explained Blackie with a little grimace. ‘Still an’ all, she did say she’d be right delighted to see ye for supper at Laura’s later.’ Blackie continued in a cheery tone, ‘Now, me lad, don’t look so downcast! We’ll go back to the house in a few hours. She’ll be finished by then.’ He swung his head to Laura. ‘And what about ye, love? What would ye like to be doing?’

‘Let’s go for a walk, if David doesn’t mind,’ Laura murmured softly.

‘Yes, let’s do that,’ David said.

The three of them wandered away from the bandstand and the rousing strains of ‘Land of Hope and Glory’. David glanced at Laura. She looked radiant. She was wearing a simple dress made of an inexpensive muslin of the palest yellow, patterned with daisies and sprigs of green, and the gauzy fabric floated around her like a cloud of hazy sunny colour, emphasizing her willowy figure and her grace of movement. A large-brimmed straw hat, trimmed with yellow and pink tea roses, shaded her face and there was something ethereal about her today. Under the brim of the hat her face looked incandescent, framed by her golden hair and illuminated by her liquid eyes.

‘You are looking lovely, Laura,’ David said gallantly. ‘And I like your dress. It’s very becoming to you, love.’

‘Thank you, David,’ she said. ‘Emma made it for me. She also trimmed this old hat and turned it into a brand new one. She’s so talented, isn’t she?’

David nodded and Blackie grunted. ‘Aye, but her talent won’t be doing her much good in the graveyard, I am thinking.’

‘Blackie! What a terrible thing to say!’ Laura cried. She gave David a lightning glance. He was silent, but she noticed then that he was biting his lip and looked worried. Laura wisely made no further remarks, but she threw a rather cold glare at Blackie, who had the grace to look chagrined.

They walked around the park slowly. Blackie and Laura talked amiably together about things in general; the usually gregarious David was silent and brooding. Eventually they found themselves at the top of a steep ridge where steps led down to the river Aire. Laura complained of the heat, and so they sat down on a bench under the shade of a weeping willow. David gazed morosely across the river, his eyes resting reflectively on the ruins of the grand Cistercian Abby of Kirkstall on the opposite shore. Then they flitted across the tranquil scenery that stretched towards the horizon, taking in Horsforth Woods beyond the ruins, which were capped further by Rawdon village and Wharfedale’s Reach. He sighed and took out his packet of cigarettes. He offered one to Blackie, who accepted it and murmured his thanks. Finally, David could not hold back any longer. He faced Blackie and said, ‘I don’t understand it, Blackie. What is it that drives Emma so hard?’

‘Hatred, pure and simple,’ Blackie replied automatically, and he could have bitten off his tongue. Furious with himself, he turned away.

Laura gasped and covered her mouth with her hand. She said, ‘Oh, Blackie, surely not!’

David was equally disturbed by this statement. ‘Hatred!’ he said sharply. ‘Not Emma. She is loving and sweet. And hatred for who?’

Blackie did not answer for a moment. He cursed himself instead. He was a big-mouthed fool. A stupid boyo. He was that, indeed. In Blackie’s opinion Emma’s hatred was for the Fairleys. But he was not about to divulge this to David or Laura.

‘Come on, Blackie. Give me an answer,’ David pressed. ‘Don’t sit there looking so mysterious.’

Blackie roused himself. ‘I don’t really know, David. I shouldn’t have spoken so rashly, lad. But ye know what the Irish are like, always blabbering on. Anyroads, I didn’t mean anybody specific.’ Blackie paused, his face a picture of assumed innocence. ‘I think perhaps it is hatred for the circumstances of her life,’ he suggested, trying to cover his error. ‘And hatred for poverty. That’s what drives Emma. Her terrible need for money.’

David looked a bit sceptical and he frowned. ‘I know Emma wants money. But then, so do you, Blackie. So do I. On the other hand, we don’t devote our lives to its accumulation to the exclusion of all else.’

Blackie leaned forward, his black eyes intense. ‘Aye, lad, but we be wanting money for different reasons than Emma. It occurs to me ye be desirous of it to buy yeself a better life. Sure and why not? ‘Tis the fine house ye be wanting, David, and the smart carriage and the elegant clothes. A few of the beautiful things, I am thinking, just like me. And a bit of security for the future, eh?’

David nodded, for Blackie did indeed speak the truth. ‘But you said Emma wants money for a different reason. What does she want it for?’

Blackie smiled a small, odd smile. ‘As a weapon.’

‘A weapon! Against whom?’ Laura demanded.

Blackie took her hand gently. ‘Don’t be upsetting yeself, Laura. Ye be misunderstanding me, love.’ He regretted having embarked on this discussion and he was loath to continue, but they had him cornered. Two pairs of questioning eyes pinned him down. He had to explain his statements as best he could. Blackie cleared his throat. ‘I mean that Emma herself believes that money is a weapon-’

‘Against who!’ David cried, interrupting him abruptly. ‘You still haven’t answered Laura.’

‘Not against anyone in particular, David.’ He shrugged. ‘Maybe against the world. Yes, I am thinking she will use her money, when she has it, against the world. Or rather, them in it that might try to do her wrong. Ye see, Emma wants money to protect herself and Edwina. She aims to build a fortress around herself and that child, so that nothing can hurt them. Ever. That’s all I meant, lad.’

David was not only disbelieving but shocked. ‘You are painting a very strange picture, Blackie. That’s not the Emma I know.’

‘Aye, lad, but I know her better than ye and for much longer. And I think I understand what drives her,’ Blackie murmured, remembering that exigent look in Emma’s eyes the first day they had met on the moors. ‘I know for a fact she won’t rest until she gets that shop. And then it’ll be another shop, and another, and another, Emma aims to be a very rich woman one day. You know something, David? She’ll succeed. Sure and she will.’

‘But at what cost?’ asked David. ‘Look at her now. She’s as thin as a rail and worn out. She has black rings under her eyes far too often these days.’ His eyes rested on Laura. ‘You must admit I’m right.’

Laura confessed, ‘Yes, you are correct to some extent, David, but, in all fairness to Emma, she does eat properly and takes care of herself.’

‘Except that she never sleeps.’

‘Oh, she does, David!’ Laura countered in defence of her friend. ‘At least five hours. She doesn’t seem to need as much rest as other people. But, of course, to be truthful, I am worried about her, too.’ Laura touched Blackie’s arm lightly. ‘Maybe you should speak to her again. I mean, about taking it more easily.’

‘How little ye be knowing her, Laura, if ye think anything I say would do any good. She won’t listen,’ said Blackie regretfully.

‘You mean we just have to stand by and watch her kill herself with work!’ cried David heatedly.

Blackie could not resist chortling. ‘Don’t let Emma hear ye say that,’ he said through his laughter. ‘She doesn’t believe hard work killed anybody. Sloth, maybe. And ye know yeself what she said about moderation, David.’ Blackie shook his head, his eyes still merry. ‘Aye, she’s unique, Emma is.’

David gazed at him for a moment and then he turned away and sat puffing on his cigarette, attempting to evaluate Blackie’s words.

‘You know, I thought Emma’s idea about having a shop was foolish at first, Blackie,’ Laura ventured, ‘but now I am beginning to think it might be the best thing. It would get her out of the mill. She hates that place.’

David said, ‘I had hoped she would come into partnership with me. By this time next year I will have saved up enough to start my own factory. I intend to make a line of women’s clothes, as well as take on outside contracting, like my father does. Emma has already designed a line for me.’ His face lit up. ‘Have you seen it, Laura?’

‘Yes, Emma showed me her sketches. Her ideas are marvellous. I think. Why, that coat with the detachable cape, and the reversible jacket are brilliant and her maternity clothes-well-they are revolutionary, wouldn’t you say? I don’t know of anyone making those wraparound skirts, blouses, and dresses that expand to fit the figure as it gets larger. Do you, David?’

‘No. She’s far ahead of her time as far as styling is concerned.’

‘I can’t argue with ye about that,’ interjected Blackie. ‘Listen, both of ye, don’t let’s be looking on the black side. Emma will be all right in the long run. She’s a real survivor. But if it makes ye both feel better, why don’t we all talk to her tonight. Careful like, so we don’t upset her. Perhaps we can get her to slow down for a bit. The three of us together might be able to make some headway.’ Blackie was not convinced Emma would pay any attention to them, but he wanted to alleviate their worry, Laura’s in particular.

‘Yes, let’s do that,’ agreed David. He now looked at Blackie guardedly before commencing in a cautious voice, ‘Look here, Blackie, I know this is none of my business, but where the hell is that husband of Emma’s? It seems a bit queer to me that he hasn’t been home on leave. Emma came to work for Dad in August of 1905. That’s almost two years ago and her husband has been noticeably absent all that time.’

Blackie had been anticipating this question, dreading it, in fact, for months. He had warned Emma time and again to prepare a plausible story. Last week she had told him she was soon going to announce that her sailor husband had deserted her. Taking a deep breath, Blackie now decided to save her the trouble. ‘Ah, David, I’m glad ye asked me, sure and I am.’ He turned swiftly to Laura and took her hand in his. ‘And ye might as well be knowing, too, me love. Emma has been a trifle embarrassed, not knowing how to be telling ye both her news. Ye see, that bleeding husband-’ He stopped short and squeezed Laura’s hand apologetically. ‘Sorry, love, I know ye don’t like me to be swearing. Anyroads, that rascally husband of hers has done a bunk, ye might say. He deserted Emma some time ago.’ Blackie, praying he was being convincing, went on, ‘Seems he wants a big naval career, sure and he does. He told Emma he didn’t want to be tied down by a wife. I don’t expect we’ll see hide nor hair of him in these parts. No, he won’t ever be back. That’s my guess.’

‘Oh, Blackie, how terrible for poor Emma and the baby,’ Laura cried, and he felt her hand tremble in his.

Blackie put his arm around her. ‘Now, mavourneen, there’s no reason for ye to be getting all worked up. Emma isn’t that bothered, not at all, at all. ’Tis glad, she is, I am thinking. Sure and did she not say to me, “Good riddance”, after she be telling me all the details,’ he lied smoothly.

David was utterly still, but his heart was beating rapidly and a tingling excitement surged through his veins. ‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ he remarked in an even voice that did not betray the jubilance he was feeling. ‘Still, if Emma is not unhappy, then perhaps it is for the best.’ He wondered, as he spoke, how much a divorce cost.

Blackie nodded. ‘Aye, ye are right.’

David sprang up. His despondency had vanished. ‘Shall we make our way back and then listen to the music for a while, before going on to the house?’

‘Sure and why not,’ agreed Blackie. He helped Laura up off the bench and they walked slowly in the direction of the bandstand. And Blackie thought: I must warn Emma I’ve neatly disposed of that sailor husband of hers.

Whilst these discussions had been taking place in Armley Park, Emma was not at home sewing, as her friends believed. She was on her way to see Joe Lowther, who lived in another part of Armley.

The minute Laura and Blackie had departed, Emma had quickly changed into her black silk dress, donned her Leghorn straw bonnet, and taken sixty pounds out of the black tin box, that contained her savings. She had rushed out of the house, close on the heels of her friends, a look of resolve on her face.

Quite by accident, when she had been shopping for groceries yesterday, she had seen it. The shop. Her shop. It was one of three that adjoined each other in a small block that fronted on to Town Street, and it was vacant. Emma had stopped abruptly, gazing at it hypnotized. It appeared exactly right for her in every way. The timing was perfect; she now had the money required for the rent and the stocks. The large empty window had been whitewashed, but there was a small clear space in the centre, where a notice had been neatly stuck on the inside. TO LET, it had read, and underneath was printed the name of the landlord, Mr Joe Lowther, and his address. Emma had memorized the details and hurried home late on Saturday afternoon, determined to be the first applicant the following day. She did not care that this was Sunday, a day when business was not normally conducted, since she was prepared to do business any day of the week.

Now as she walked briskly through the labyrinth of streets, almost breathless with mounting excitement, she half regretted selecting the black dress. It was really too warm for this scorching day. But in spite of the heat and the warmth of the dress, Emma did not slow her pace, and within fifteen minutes she was approaching the street where Joe Lowther lived. She found the house and marched up the stone steps resolutely. She knocked soundly three times and waited. A few moments elapsed before the door was opened by a tall, sturdily built young man. He was fair, with large grey eyes and light brown hair, and his pleasant face was open and honest. He was in his shirt sleeves and his hair was rumpled.

He stared down at Emma, obviously surprised to see a visitor. ‘Yes, miss, what can I do for you?’ he asked gruffly.

‘I’d like to see your father, please,’ Emma said politely, and proffered a tentative smile.

‘My father? I think you must have the wrong house, miss. My father’s been dead these past six years.’

‘Oh dear, perhaps I’ve made a mistake. I was looking for the home of a Mr Joe Lowther.’

‘Then you’ve found it, miss. I’m Joe Lowther.’

Emma was surprised. ‘Oh! Well, please excuse me, but I thought you seemed a bit young to be the landlord of the shop on Town Street. The shop that’s to let,’ Emma said with her usual forthrightness. She saw at once that the young man was bristling and she rushed on, ‘Are you that Mr Lowther?’

‘That’s me, all right,’ said the young man. His eyes narrowed. ‘Are you interested in the shop, then? For your mother?’

‘No,’ Emma said, faintly amused. He was apparently stinging from her reference to his youthful appearance, and so she smiled that radiant smile and her unwavering green gaze, warm and self-assured, did not leave his face. ‘Actually, I want to rent the shop for myself.’

Joe Lowther said, ‘Oh, you do, do you! Aren’t you a bit young? What experience of retailing do you have, miss?’

Emma considered this to be none of his business, but refrained from telling him so, being canny enough not to brush him the wrong way again. Instead she said, ‘I have some experience, and I’ve also done a lot of dressmaking and catering here in Armley. I have a nice business going, and now I want a shop so I can conduct it from there.’ Her voice vibrated with enormous confidence as she added, ‘And I’m certainly not too young, Mr Lowther.’

Joe shook his head. ‘No. No. It wouldn’t work. I can’t say I’d be willing to rent the shop to you, miss,’ he said with a certain brusqueness.

Emma ignored his blunt retort. ‘But I am willing to take the the shop off your hands now, Mr Lowther. At once. Today.’ Emma climbed up two steps until she was on a level with Joe Lowther. She stared at him, exercising all of her considerable charm, smiling beguilingly. ‘Can’t we go inside and discuss this, Mr Lowther?’ she asked in a voice as smooth as silk.

‘I can’t see the sense in that, since I won’t change my mind,’ he declared stubbornly. Her proximity was distracting him and as he looked into her face, only a few inches away from his, Joe felt himself growing hot around the collar.

Emma opened her purse, resorting to the one stratagem in which she had absolute belief. ‘I can pay in advance, Mr Lowther.’

Joe reluctantly brought his gaze up to meet Emma’s and he discovered he was mesmerized by those brilliant eyes observing him with such cool concentration. Whatever will the neighbours think if I invite her in? he asked himself. But since he was not generally discourteous, Joe was now ashamed of his rudeness and he found himself saying in a kinder voice, ‘Well, you’re right about one thing, we had better go inside.’ This was really prompted by his concern for the gossips in the street and, so she would not think he had changed his mind about the shop, Joe felt obliged to add, ‘It’s not very fitting to discuss business on the doorstep at the best of times, and especially on Sunday. I don’t usually do business on Sundays, miss.’

‘Well, there’s always a first time for everything, Mr Lowther,’ said Emma, eyeing him with amusement from under her thick lashes. She was aware that Joe was ill at ease and she intended to use this to her advantage.

Why, she’s as bold as brass, Joe thought, seething with combined annoyance and exasperation. Nevertheless, he opened the door wider and ushered her into the house. He showed her into the parlour. ‘Excuse me. I’ll be back in a minute. Please sit down,’ said Joe. He closed the door behind him and retreated.

Emma stood in the middle of the room, blinking in the dim light. She grimaced as her eyes adjusted to the dolorous gloom. The room reminded her of Mrs Daniel’s front parlour, all Victorian folderols and a preponderance of overstuffed furniture. But the furniture is good, she thought. There’s just too much of it. She seated herself on an uncomfortable horsehair chair to wait.

Emma had discovered three important things since she had been in Leeds: Money talked in the most persuasive voice. Put cold hard cash down on a table and few people could resist picking it up; payment in advance was another irresistible temptation and the more advance you paid, the stronger you were; and finally, opportunity had to be seized firmly the instant it presented itself, because it did not come knocking on the same door twice in one week. Emma considered all of these things, but mostly she wondered if Joe Lowther could be swayed by money. For some reason she was not positive of this. She frowned, ruminating on Joe, endeavouring to assess him. He was certainly bashful. She also knew she had unnerved him on the doorstep and, in her shrewd opinion, this gave her the upper hand. Still, that did not mean he would agree to rent her the shop. Apparently he believed her youth to be a disadvantage, and yet he did not appear to be much older than she was. He was perhaps twenty or twenty-one. Nonetheless, it was imperative that she convince him she was capable and experienced at retailing, and that she would therefore be a responsible tenant. Perhaps three months’ rent would be a suitable inducement. It would not only reassure him of her serious intentions, but would also illustrate her business acumen over the past year. It then struck Emma that she must be her most charming self. Joe Lowther would succumb to sweetness. Sweetness and money. An unbeatable combination. Emma smoothed her dress, feeling calm as the door opened.

Joe had put on his tie and jacket and his hair was now combed back neatly. Emma could see the water glistening on it. She dropped her head quickly so he would not detect the smile on her face. Joe Lowther had become quite transparent to her. There would be a bit of a tussle between them, but the shop would be hers when she left this house.

Joe sat down opposite Emma and, adopting his brusquest tone, he commenced, ‘Now, about the shop, miss. I’ve been thinking it over, and I have definitely decided I can’t rent it to you.’

‘Why ever not?’ Emma asked in her most dulcet voice.

‘Because two people have failed in it this year, and they’d had a lot more experience than you. I don’t want to sound harsh, miss, but you must understand I can’t take a chance on renting to somebody who’s a novice. I’m seeking a tenant that really knows retailing, who’ll make a go of the shop, so I don’t have to be worrying about it being vacant half the time. I’ve better things to do than play nursemaid.’

Emma gave Joe a smile that would have melted half the ice in the Arctic Circle and made her eyes wide but serious. ‘Oh, I do realize that, Mr Lowther,’ she answered. ‘And, in some ways, I understand your reluctance because of my youth. However, it’s not really of great consequence when you consider that I have been running a business from my home. I have been dealing with people, selling to them. My business has been highly profitable. I’ve made a lot of money with my dress-making and homemade foodstuffs. I have good steady customers, mostly the carriage trade, and they would certainly give me their patronage if I had a shop.’ Emma paused and flashed a brilliant smile. ‘Why, they have assured me of that,’ she fibbed adroitly. ‘So you see, I’m not really as inexperienced as you believe, and I do have expectations.’

‘Carriage trade, you say,’ remarked Joe, not unimpressed. ‘And how long have you been running this little business from your home?’

‘About a year,’ said Emma, leaning forward, eagerness washing over her face. ‘And it’s not so little either.’

Joe regarded her intently. She was direct and sounded businesslike and certainly she was not lacking in assurance. In fact, he had never met a girl as self-possessed as she was. Her spirit and enthusiasm were refreshing, almost infectious, and his doubts about her youth and ability were rapidly diminishing. However, she disconcerted him, but then he had always been awkward around girls and one as beautiful as she was bound to make him feel insecure. Still, she only wanted to rent a shop from him and that was all. ‘Well, I don’t really know what to say,’ he began hesitatingly.

Conscious that he was wavering, Emma held up her hand. ‘Just a minute, Mr Lowther,’ she said authoritatively. ‘I said earlier I would pay you in advance.’ She opened her black reticule and brought out a thick roll of bank notes. ‘As you can see, Mr Lowther, I don’t make idle claims. I am a woman of some substance, albeit a young one, and indeed I can pay you well in advance. I know I can make a go of the shop, Mr Lowther. I expect it to be a success within six months.’

Joe stared at her incredulously. ‘Oh, come on! That’s a bit far-fetched. Do you think I fell off a banana boat? I’m not green, you know.’

Emma decided these comments were unworthy of a reply. Instead she stretched out her hand. ‘I have been so rude, Mr Lowther. I haven’t introduced myself. My name is Emma Harte.’

He took her hand tentatively. He felt its dry coolness through the crocheted glove and her grip was firm, strong like a man’s. ‘Pleased to meet you, Miss Harte,’ he said.

‘It’s Mrs Harte,’ said Emma.

‘Oh, excuse me,’ said Joe, assailed by unexpected disappointment.

Emma grabbed the moment to drive her point home. ‘I don’t know what the rent is, Mr Lowther, but I would be prepared to pay you several months in advance.’ She must make the offer so tempting he would not be able to refuse. ‘Shall we say six months in advance? Surely that shows you my good faith and also my belief in myself.’

Joe was floundering, his resolve crumbling under the force of her compelling and winning personality. He recognized he was drawn to her. Dangerously attracted to her. The unworldly Joe was horrified. A married woman! Then it came to him in a rush. That was the real reason he did not want her as a tenant. He was afraid of falling under her spell.

Emma knew she was holding all the cards and she made her final move. She leaned forward and touched his arm gently. Joe jumped as if bitten by a snake. ‘Look here, Mr Lowther,’ Emma said firmly. ‘I have another idea. Apart from paying you the rent in advance, I’m also prepared to give you a letter of agreement stating that should my business fail I will not vacate the premises until you find another tenant. In other words, I will guarantee to give you sufficient warning before leaving. Shall we say three months’ notice?’ she suggested in a guileless voice.

Joe found it impossible to argue with this girl. Not only were her terms sound, they were all in his favour. He would look like an imbecile if he refused such an offer. ‘Well,’ he said at last, ‘you are certainly confident of your success in the shop, Mrs Harte. Otherwise you wouldn’t suggest such an arrangement. But it’s fair enough, I suppose. Don’t you want to look over the shop first, before going into this venture?’

‘I know the shop, Mr Lowther,’ Emma said with an airy wave of her hand. ‘I went into it several times. Your previous tenant was badly organized, the stock was shoddy and far too expensive for its quality, and she was obviously not a very clever buyer. Not only that, she didn’t know her customers!’

‘Oh,’ said Joe, dumbfounded.

‘I presume it’s settled, Mr Lowther,’ said Emma briskly.

‘Er, yes, of course. I’ll rent the shop to you,’ he said. ‘For a guinea a week. That makes it four guineas a month. There are living quarters attached to the shop. A large kitchen-parlour, a bedroom, and a huge cellar for storage. You could live there, behind the shop, and very comfortably, if you had a mind to.’

Emma nodded. ‘Yes, I probably will live there. It makes sense. Now, four guineas a month is around forty-eight guineas a year, give or take a few shillings, isn’t it?’ She began to peel off the notes, doing some fast mental arithmetic. ‘Could I have a receipt, please?’ she asked politely, handing over the cash.

‘Naturally,’ said Joe. ‘And I will get you the key and the rent book. I’ll mark the book paid for six months. Should it be in your name or your husband’s?’

‘Mine, please. My husband is in the navy, Mr Lowther. In foreign parts.’

‘Is he really!’ said Joe.

Emma nodded and went on, ‘I’ll write you the letter of agreement about the three months’ notice. I’ll bring it around tomorrow evening. Is that convenient? You can show it to your solicitor, if you want.’

‘No. No. That’s not necessary. And tomorrow night is perfectly convenient,’ said Joe. He stood up. ‘I’ll go and get the key and the rent book. I’ll be back in a jiffy.’

‘Aren’t you going to count the money?’ Emma asked, nodding at the pounds in his hand.

‘I trust you,’ Joe said. ‘Please excuse me, Mrs Harte.’

Emma heard him whistling as he went through into the kitchen. A wide smile of self-congratulation mingled with exultation flew on to her face. She could hardly contain herself.

She now had her first shop.

THIRTY-FOUR

Joe Lowther shrugged into his black overcoat and dug his hands into his pockets, shivering as he strode along at a brisk pace. A fierce wind was whistling down the lane and it blew the sleet and snow against his body in swirling flurries. He was drenched again, as he had been every night this week. December had ushered in the foulest weather, which now at the end of the first week appeared to have settled in for a long siege. He was later than ever tonight. Once again he had been inveigled into staying at the foundry to finish the books as a special favour to Mr Ramsbotham, who had lately acquired the annoying habit of piling extra work on him. His tardiness irritated him for another, more significant reason. Usually on Friday evening, after his supper, he went to Emma Harte’s to look over the books for her. Tonight he would not be able to get there until almost ten o’clock, and Joe, the product of a lower-middle-class upbringing, was rigid in his observance of the proprieties. It did not seem correct to go calling on a young woman who lived alone at such a late hour. Still, he had promised and he felt honour-bound to keep his word.

Joe had taught Emma bookkeeping, and supervising her ledgers was a practice he considered unnecessary these days. Nevertheless, it was one he did willingly and, if he was honest with himself, he looked forward to doing it. Emma had a staggering aptitude for figures and kept meticulous books. It had struck him recently that she actually enjoyed toiling over those endless columns of figures in a way he did not. If the truth be known, he did not like bookkeeping at all. It was hardly his vocation. However, he had been apprenticed in the accounting office at the foundry when he was fifteen, and after nine years it had become a way of life for him. It never occurred to Joe to seek a more congenial employer. He was too set in his ways and, since he was not ambitious and lacked the drive to strike out in new directions, he remained shackled to Ramsbotham’s dreary books. Nor did it ever occur to the stolid Joe that he did not have to work at all, if he chose not to. He detested idleness and, more importantly, he harboured a palpable fear of boredom. His job at the foundry filled his days and helped to counteract the empty evenings of solitude that yawned inexorably before him month after month, year after year.

But Joe Lowther could have stopped working when his mother had died four years ago. It was then that Frederick Ainsley, the family solicitor, had sent for him to hear the will read and Joe had discovered, to his profound astonishment, that his mother had left him not only in comfortable circumstances but extremely well off. ‘It is An Inheritance, my boy,’ Mr Ainsley had said, speaking in capitals as befitted the occasion and the size of the estate. ‘A tribute to your poor departed mother’s prodigious and most commendable efforts over the years, and to your grandmother’s before her,’ the solicitor had intoned. Frederick Ainsley had then gone on to enumerate the number of properties Joe now owned, thanks to the unflagging industriousness of those two women on the maternal side of the family. The Inheritance, which Joe immediately felt obliged to think of in Mr Ainsley’s large letters, included eight shops in Town Street, a row of cottages in Armley, several terrace houses in nearby Wortley, and, to Joe’s further incredulity, two large plots of land near St Paul’s Street in Leeds itself. ‘Better hang on to those, Joe,’ Ainsley had instructed. ‘They will increase in value. Lots of building going on in Leeds. When you do sell it should be for a high price.’ Finally, the speechless Joe had learned that his mother had left him fifty-five thousand pounds in cash in the Midland Bank. Joe had staggered out of the solicitor’s office reeling from shock on that awesome day. Later, sitting on the tram on his way home to Armley, a cold anger had settled over him. His mother had never ceased her querulous warnings of financial disaster looming on the horizon. His sweet-tempered and henpecked father had been mercilessly driven into an early grave from overwork and lack of nourishing food and proper medical attention. Why had his mother been so cruel when they had had so much? he had asked himself, and his resentment of her had not lessened with time.

Joe had not touched that capital during these past few years. He had simply added to it, paying the revenue from the properties into the bank every month. Unlike his avaricious mother, there was little cupidity in Joe and as long as he had sufficient for his daily needs that was good enough for him Most of the time money never crossed his mind at all.

However, he thought about it this night as he trudged through the dark wet streets. Two weeks earlier Emma had mentioned that she was investing in David Kallinski’s first clothing factory in York Road. She had already designed a line of ladies’ clothes for David and her enthusiasm was infectious. When Emma had suggested David might let him invest as well, Joe had been surprised. ‘Money should be made to work, Joe,’ Emma had pronounced, and she informed him that she hoped to double her money in no time at all.

Although Joe was cautious by nature, this was chiefly engendered by shyness, rather than any particular canniness. His laissez-faire attitude about finances had prompted him to shrug nonchalantly and agree to invest, if David wanted him to do so. Emma had said she would arrange it. ‘I think two thousand pounds would be just the right amount,’ she had gone on. ‘If you can afford it. As a financial man, you should know, without me telling you, that money is a tool to be used to make more money, Joe. What good is it doing in the bank?’

I don’t really need to make more money, Joe now said to himself. He was settled for life. On the other hand, he did not particularly want to lose two thousand pounds. He dismissed this negative thought. Joe had an infallible belief in Emma’s innate shrewdness, having witnessed it at first hand, and he had long recognized her brilliance in business matters, amazing for a twenty-year-old girl. He trusted her judgement. Also, Joe was intelligent enough to acknowledge that he was really investing in the clothing factory for the fun of it. He liked David and Emma, and because he had few friends and was miserably lonely, he longed to be involved in their lives, to be part of this exciting venture.

So caught up was he in his diverse thoughts Joe found himself on his own doorstep in no time at all. He knocked the snow off his boots as he climbed the steps. Delicious aromas of food cooking greeted him, and the warmth of the sparkling kitchen dispelled his lonely feelings.

Mrs Hewitt was setting the table for his supper. ‘There yer are, Joe,’ she cried, her face beaming. ‘By gum, yer look nithered ter death, luvey. Come ter the fire and get yerself warmed up.’

‘Hello, Mrs Hewitt,’ Joe said, taking off his cap and struggling out of his coat. He hurried over to the sink, rubbing his hands to dispel their iciness. He dried his hair and face, washed his hands, and then sat down by the fire. ‘It’s a blustery night, Mrs Hewitt, and very cold. I think there’ll be a hard frost.’

Mrs Hewitt nodded. ‘Aye, yer probably right, lad.’ She glanced at him and frowned, ‘Nay, Joe, don’t sit there in yer wet boots, luv. Take ‘em off at once. That’s how yer get toothache, yer knows, luvey, sitting in wet boots.’

Joe smiled at this old wives’ tale, but he unlaced his boots and placed them on the hearth to please her. She was a nice old body and looked after him far better than his mother ever had, and three nights a week she helped to transform this depressing house into a home.

‘Look at this custard flan,’ Mrs Hewitt exclaimed, pointing to the dessert on the table. ‘Have yer ever seen owt as luvely? I bought it as pudding for yer, at Mrs Harte’s. By gum, Joe, no wonder she does a roaring trade. And the way she’s trained them two lasses of Mrs Long’s to be her helpers, why, it fair takes me breath away.’

Joe smiled at her. ‘I never thought she’d make such a go of it when she took that first shop. But she proved me wrong, and a lot of others as well.’

‘Aye, lad, she’s a right good tenant for yer,’ Mrs Hewitt conceded.

‘What’s for supper?’ Joe asked, warming his hands. ‘It smells good.’

‘I can’t be taking no credit for yer dinner tonight, Joe,’ the old woman replied. ‘I bought yer a steak-and-kidney pie from Mrs Harte’s, being as how yer liked the last one.’

‘It sounds grand, Mrs Hewitt.’

‘I was talking to Laura Spencer today, in the haberdashery, and do yer know, that wedding dress they’re making for me cousin’s lass is one of Mrs Harte’s own designs. Miss Spencer told me that Mrs Harte is going to be designing clothes for one of them big factory places in Leeds.’

‘So I understand,’ said Joe.

‘Fancy that and yer never told me, Joe.’

‘It didn’t occur to me, Mrs Hewitt. Is it so important?’

‘Of course it is, Joe. Anything ter do with Emma Harte is important. Why, everybody thinks she’s a right luvely young woman. So polite and dignified. The talk of Town Street with her fancy shops. And such a bonny lass.’ She carried the bowl of turnips to the oven and continued, ‘Would yer like a beer, Joe? I’ve got one cooling on the cellar head.’

‘I wouldn’t say no, Mrs Hewitt. Thank you.’ Joe lit his pipe and settled back in the chair, warming his damp feet.

‘Well, it’s all ready now, Joe,’ Mrs Hewitt proclaimed. ‘I’ve finished the pots and yer supper’ll stay nice and warm in the oven, luvey. Drink yer beer first, and then yer can help yerself later. I’ll have ter be off. Ta’rar.’

Later, after he had read the paper, Joe took out the meat pie and vegetables and settled down to his supper. He had just finished eating when a loud banging on the door brought him up with a start. The door burst open to admit a flurry of snowflakes along with Mrs Minton, one of his tenants. Her face was purple and from the furious glint in her eyes Joe knew this was not caused by the icy wind but rather by her roiling temper.

‘Good heavens, Mrs Minton-’ he began.

‘Don’t Mrs Minton me, Joe Lowther!’ she yelled. ‘It’s a crime! A bloody crime. I just knew it! Ever since she moved in I knew she was after me shop. And when yer rented her that other one on t’corner I told me husband it wouldn’t be long before she had me out. There I am, plonk in the middle, between her food shop and her haberdashery, and she’s aiming ter squeeze and squeeze till she get’s me out inter the middle of Town Street. Yer can’t deny I’m right!’ The enraged Mrs Minton paused for breath, her hands on her hips, her stance defiant.

‘Please, Mrs Minton, calm down. I don’t know what on earth you’re talking about.’

‘I’m talking about Emma Harte, that’s what! She wants me shop! I don’t need a crystal bloody ball ter tell me that. She wants ter expand inter me shop. The shop I’ve had for ten years. The commercial travellers think she’s no good, hoitytoity stuck-up Mrs Harte. Lady Muck, they calls her. Cutting ‘em out, she is, going ter the manufacturers and warehouses herself and buying directly, instead of from the travellers. Then she slashes her prices so’s nobody else in Town Street can get a sale in edgewise. Aye, she’s a crafty cunning bitch, that Emma Harte is.’

‘Mrs Minton!’ Joe bellowed. ‘Emma Harte is a nice girl and she works hard. She isn’t trying to squeeze you out. She’s simply running her shops in a businesslike manner.’ Joe stared with distaste at the slovenly woman in her filthy coat and grimy scarf. She was a living reflection of her dirty shop, which was a triumph of confusion and run in the most slipshod manner imaginable.

‘Aye, I bloody expected yer ter defend her,’ Mrs Minton shouted. ‘I told me husband I wouldn’t be getting nowheres with yer. Stands ter reason yer’d watch out for yer fancy woman! Aye, and don’t look like that. We all knows what’s going on between the both of yer!’ She took a step nearer to Joe and peered into his face, hissing, ‘Yer fancy woman, that’s what Emma bloody Harte is, and she a married woman! I’m surprised yer haven’t put a bun in her oven already. But time will tell, me lad.’

Joe had blanched. ‘Why, you foul-mouthed, despicable old woman. There is nothing between Mrs Harte and myself, other than a business relationship. And you’d better watch your words, Mrs Minton, or you’ll find yourself the recipient of a writ for slander. I will not tolerate this kind of disgusting talk!’

Mrs Minton leaned forward and waved the rent book she was clutching under his nose. Joe thought she was going to strike him with it. ‘I think you had better leave, Mrs Minton,’ he said icily. ‘Before I really lose my temper. I’ve just about had enough of you.’

With a toss of her head she swung on her heels and marched to the door. She looked back, her eyes blazing with animosity, and she shouted, ‘Well, she’s not going ter have the satisfaction of squeezing me out, because I’m leaving on me own account! And yer can take yer bloody rent book and shove it!’ She flung the rent book across the room at Joe and it landed in the custard flan.

The door banged behind her. Joe stared at the rent book floating in the custard, fished it out, and carried it to the sink, wiping it clean with the dishcloth. He looked inside. Miserable old battle-axe, he thought, she owes me a month’s rent. He knew he would have to whistle for that. He did not care.

Joe was horrified at the things Mrs Minton had said about Emma and himself. Surely they must have been uttered out of her consuming spite. Or did everyone in the neighbourhood really believe there was something between them? ‘Fancy woman’ was not a prestigious name to pin on a woman. It was just another way of saying tart. He might have guessed some people would talk, if only the likes of Mrs Minton. But he had never laid a finger on Emma, and he felt a flush rising to flood his face. It was with a rush of guilt that he recalled those nights when he lay awake in his chaste bed, hardly able to breathe, his desire for Emma blazing until he could not bear it. For desire her he did. On those terrible nights he envisioned himself running his hands over Emma’s beautiful body, pressing his mouth to hers, stroking her firm breasts, and ultimately taking her to him passionately. He shivered and closed his eyes, trying to obliterate those erotic images, those lustful and sensuous fantasies that haunted him.

After a few moments Joe felt calmer. Wanting a woman and craving to possess her was one thing, but it was scarcely a reality, and he resented the ghastly implications of Mrs Minton’s words. Joe sighed wearily, recognizing that Emma had ruined the harridan’s business, albeit unintentionally. She made sure her products and the shops themselves were more appealing and attractive than others in the vicinity. Her specialities, such as her delicious homemade foodstuffs, were renowned, as was her dressmaking, and she had captured the carriage trade for miles around. With her audacity and her merchandising, her two shops had become the busiest in Town Street in just under three years, and her profits were high. Joe was aware of that from his weekly inspection of her ledgers. So enormously high, in fact, she could now afford to invest two thousand pounds in David’s business, as he himself intended to do. That kind of success was guaranteed to provoke jealousy and vicious talk.

Joe stood up, determined not to dwell on Mrs Minton’s accusations. He would go and see Emma right away and tell her that Mrs Minton was about to vacate the premises. Emma could now have her third shop. Although she had never said a word to Joe, he knew that she had been angling for it for some time. It made sense, he had to admit that. With Mrs Minton gone Emma could indeed expand and the three adjoining shops would be like the department store she envisioned owning one day. He caught sight of the clock. It was well turned nine. He shrugged. To hell with the neighbours. I don’t care what they believe. He went upstairs to put on a clean shirt.

Emma stood in the middle of the food shop and surveyed her handiwork with satisfaction. Everything looked beautiful, she decided, and it certainly had been well worth getting up at four-thirty that morning to create her special displays for Christmas. Her keen eyes spotted a particle of dust on one of the glass cabinets and she flew over with a cloth. She flicked it off and stood back scanning the cabinets that sparkled in the bright light from the gas fixtures on the walls. Now they were absolutely perfect and nothing marred their pristine glitter. The food inside looked delectable. There were Christmas cakes topped with almonds; round fat plum puddings wrapped in fresh muslin, each one tied with a gay red ribbon; a selection of mince pies of various sizes; and yule logs made of sponge cake, thickly coated with rich dark chocolate and decorated with sprigs of marzipan mistletoe. Emma, assisted by the Long girls, had spent endless hours baking all of this seasonal fare but she knew her industriousness would be rewarded. Every item would be sold, along with the additional supplies stored in large tins in the cool cellar.

Emma smoothed the fresh white cloth on the table in front of the glass food cabinets and regarded her arrangement of foreign imports, delicacies she had purchased for the holiday season and which no other shop in Armley carried. She moved a blue-and-white china crock of crystallized ginger so that the French glazed fruits and the Turkish delight were easily visible, and deftly straightened the boxes of Egyptian dates and figs from Greece. She then hurried behind the counter and returned with a tray of small straw baskets containing marzipan fruits and jolly little pigs, which had arrived yesterday from Germany. The night before, Emma had lined the baskets with strips of crinkled green paper, and tied red bows on the handles. She was heavily stocked, but she anticipated a brisk business in the next few days. This was her third Christmas in the shop, and she was now so well established in the district she had no qualms about sales. She was convinced she would be inundated with customers, both her regulars and new ones.

Emma gave the shop a final glance, her eyes critically seeking out the tiniest imperfection. Not one was visible. The innumerable shelves, running around the walls and soaring up to the ceiling, held tins of ham, pork, and game, great blackand-gold canisters of varied teas, all manner of other staples, and her own bottled fruits, vegetables, and jams. Ranged below were jars of candied peel, glazed cherries, mincemeat, and cranberry and apple sauces for the Christmas turkeys and geese. Three huge barrels, to the right of the side counter, were filled to overflowing with nuts, apples, and oranges for the children’s traditional Christmas stockings, and the faint aroma of fruit wafted sweetly on the air to blend with the mingled scents of the pungent herbs and spices from the Indies, the fragrance of the newly baked confectionery, and the mouth-watering smells of cheeses and cooked meats. Oh, how she loved her shop! Here she was secure, far away from the Fairleys and protected from them. She thought, too, and with enormous pleasure, of the forthcoming sales and her spiralling profits, and her face immediately broke into a smile.

Now Emma crossed to the door, pulled up the blinds, and drew back the bolts in readiness for her first customers. These would undoubtedly be the cooks and housekeepers from the fine mansions, who usually came trooping in early in the day to place their orders. Emma hoped their shopping lists would be longer than ever this week.

As the clock struck eight Emma took up her usual position behind the counter, seating herself on a stool next to the paraffin stove. She bent down and opened a cupboard, taking out the ledger for the haberdashery. In the year she had been renting Joe Lowther’s second shop business had far exceeded her wildest dreams. Laura, whom she had persuaded to manage it for her, had proved to be both capable and efficient, and sales had doubled in the first six months. Emma perused the columns of those beautiful figures and sighed in gratification and relief. Edwina’s future and her own were now assured.

The tinkling of the bell brought Emma’s head up sharply and she put the ledger away and locked the cupboard. She stood up, smiling at the woman entering. It was the housekeeper from one of the fine residences in the elegant and exclusive row known as the Towers. ‘Good morning, Mrs Jackson,’ Emma said. ‘You’re out bright and early.’

‘Morning to you, Mrs Harte. By gum, it’s nippy today. I’m glad to be in your lovely warm shop. I don’t know why the other shopkeepers don’t follow your example and heat up their premises.’ Mrs Jackson shivered as she approached the counter with two large baskets. ‘I thought I’d best get my order in first thing, though I won’t be sending the gardener’s lad for it till later in the week.’ She handed over the baskets and sat down on the stool at the other side of the counter

Emma stowed the baskets away and said, ‘Can I offer you a cup of nice hot tea, Mrs Jackson?’

The woman’s face, white and pinched from the freezing weather, lit up. ‘You can that, luv, if it’s no trouble. It was a right frosty walk down Town Street, I can tell you.’

Emma always kept a huge pot of tea prepared in the cold weather, which she dispensed generously to her clientele. She had discovered that a little hospitality cost nothing and paid enormous dividends. She lifted the pot from the table next to the stove, adjusted the tea cosy and poured the tea. ‘Milk and sugar, isn’t it, Mrs Jackson? And how’s your little Freddy doing? Has he recovered from the measles?’ Emma asked. She made a point of knowing about her customers’ children and husbands, and their aches and pains, and she was always ready to offer a sympathetic ear.

Mrs Jackson accepted the tea, beaming with delight. ‘Well, isn’t that nice of you to remember Freddy. He’ll be up and about for Christmas.’ She opened her handbag and took out a piece of paper. ‘Here’s my list, Mrs Harte. I think it’s complete, but I’ll have a look round, if you don’t mind and-’ Mrs Jackson paused midsentence. The bell was tinkling and the door opened.

Emma’s face broke into a surprised but delighted smile. ‘Blackie!’ she exclaimed, ‘I didn’t expect you until tonight.’

‘Top of the morning to ye, Emma, and to ye, ma’am,’ Blackie responded cheerily, inclining his head in Mrs Jackson’s direction. ‘I hope I’m not disturbing ye, Emma.’

‘No, not at all. Come around the counter and help yourself to some tea, while I finish with Mrs Jackson,’ said Emma, turning her attention to her customer. She looked over the list quickly. ‘Yes, everything seems clear, Mrs Jackson. Still, perhaps you should-’ Emma paused and gave the housekeeper a thoughtful look. ‘I wonder if you should take some extra mince pies and yule logs. You know how the children love them, and it is a long holiday season this year. To be honest with you, I have a large number of orders to meet. I can’t promise there will be much left at the end of the week, if you did decide you wanted more.’

‘Ooh, I hadn’t thought of that. Well, perhaps you’d better increase it. I don’t want the missis upset with me. Make it three more of each and pop in another Christmas cake as well,’ said Mrs Jackson. Her eyes caught the display of imports and she walked over to the table, carrying her mug of tea. ‘By gum, these look real fancy.’ She examined a box of Turkish delight and read out Emma’s carefully lettered card. ‘Exclusive to Harte’s. Supply limited.’

Emma pretended to check the shopping list, watching Mrs Jackson from beneath her lashes. She had chosen those words deliberately last night, knowing they would appeal to her customers’ snobbishness.

Mrs Jackson continued to look over the foreign sweetmeats and then said, ‘I’m not so sure about any of these. They look interesting, but maybe they’re just a bit too fancy for my missis.’

‘Oh, do you think so, Mrs Jackson? I’ve always found the gentry to be partial to such delicacies,’ Emma said pointedly. ‘Actually, I’m sorry I didn’t order more. Those items are going like wildfire. Why, only yesterday, one of the cooks from the Towers asked me to save her two of everything,’ she improvised swiftly. ‘Still, I realize they are a little expensive.’

Mrs Jackson gave Emma a sharp look. ‘My missis isn’t concerned about the price of anything, Mrs Harte,’ she said defensively. ‘I’ll take three of everything!’

Emma smiled. She had learned to take advantage of the competitiveness between the local cooks and housekeepers, who were always trying to better each other. ‘Very good, Mrs Jackson. I’ll make a note and put them away immediately.’

Mrs Jackson’s eyes roved over the shelves behind Emma. ‘While you’re at it, you’d best add a tin of that imported ham and four bottles of your chutney to my list. My lady’s expecting a lot of posh guests over the holidays. It’s wise to be prepared.’

‘Yes, that’s true. And you can always send the gardener’s boy down later in the week, if there’s anything else you’ve forgotten. You know I’ll always do my best for you, Mrs Jackson.’

The housekeeper preened. ‘It’s nice to know I’m a favoured customer, Mrs Harte. I know I can rely on you. Now, do you think I’ve missed anything off the list, being as how you know so much about catering? I do want the missis to be pleased with my menus for the holidays.’

Emma made a show of thinking hard. ‘I would add two tins of pork and three jars of apple sauce, if I were you. For emergencies. And perhaps a selection of cheeses to go with the Christmas cakes. Leave it to me, Mrs Jackson. I’ll pick out the very best of my cheeses, and perhaps a couple of other items.’

Mrs Jackson placed the mug on the counter, looking as if Emma had just done her an enormous favour. ‘Thank you, Mrs Harte. It’s thoughtful of you to take so much trouble for me. I must say, you’ve made my life easier since you’ve been in Town Street. I don’t have to do so much cooking these days. Well, I must be on me way. Merry Christmas to you, luv.’ She paused at the door and waved.

‘Merry Christmas, Mrs Jackson. And remember, don’t you worry about a thing. I’ll see your order is filled exactly,’ Emma called after her.

‘I bet you will,’ Blackie said with a grin as he came around the counter and lowered himself on to the stool Mrs Jackson had vacated. ‘Ye could sell coal to the natives in darkest Africa. I’ve never seen anything like it, Emma. Why, ye must have doubled that poor woman’s order.’

‘Tripled it,’ said Emma with a smug little smile.

Blackie shook his head and adopted a serious expression. ‘Well, Emma, I just stopped by to pay me condolences to ye.’

‘Condolences?’

‘Aye, I understand ye sailor husband passed away unexpectedly a few weeks ago. Died of typhoid fever in the Indian Ocean, so I be hearing. How very sad.’ He threw back that great head and roared. Emma laughed with him. ‘My God, Emma, what an imagination ye have. It’s ye who should be an aspiring writer and not Frank. Typhoid fever in the Indian Ocean indeed!’

‘Well, I had to kill him off,’ Emma said. ‘It was becoming a real nuisance-having a husband. Even one who had deserted me. I thought it was best to have him die far away and be buried at sea.’

Blackie chuckled. ‘True. True.’ He eyed her red wool dress. ‘I can see ye are not in mourning.’

‘My friends wouldn’t expect me to wear black for a man who deserted me, now would they? I suppose Laura told you.’

‘That she did. She said ye had received a letter from the Admiralty the other morning. Ye certainly lay it on thick, don’t ye?’

‘I had to make it sound authentic, Blackie. They were only white lies. I can tell the truth from now on.’

‘Oh, ye can, can ye?’

‘Yes, of course,’ Emma said firmly. ‘But not about Edwina. We have to protect her at all costs. Nobody must know that she’s illegitimate, Blackie.’

‘I won’t be betraying ye, mavourneen. Ye know that. By the way, I saw David Kallinski yesterday. I went to look over the factory, so I can make me plans for the alterations. I hope ye don’t mind, but I told him about ye husband passing on.’

‘Oh! What did he say?’ she asked cautiously.

‘He said he was sorry. But to me he looked like a man who’d just inherited a million pounds.’ Blackie scrutinized her carefully. ‘What’s going on between the two of ye, Emma?’

‘Why, nothing,’ she said evenly. ‘I’m his business partner, that’s all.’

‘Oh, aye,’ said Blackie thoughtfully. ‘Well, it strikes me he thinks otherwise.’

‘Stuff and nonsense. It’s your Celtic imagination getting the better of you. Yours is a sight more vivid than even Frank’s.’

Blackie did not reply. He reached into his overcoat, pulled out a sheaf of papers, and handed them to Emma. ‘Here are the plans for renovating the middle shop and then joining all three together like ye wanted, mavourneen. I aim to go into Mrs Minton’s on either side. That is, from the haberdashery and through that wall over there. I’ll make a sort of passage that links all three. How does that sound?’

‘Wonderful, Blackie! You know I trust your judgement. I’ll look at the plans tonight. When will you start?’ she asked eagerly.

‘Knowing ye, I suppose ye’d like me to start immediately, but it’ll have to be after Christmas, Emma. We’ll do a fast job, though, and ye’ll be in the shop by the middle of January.’

THIRTY-FIVE

David Kallinski leaned back against the sofa in the kitchen-parlour behind Emma’s food shop and thoughtfully regarded the last of her sketches. He held it away from him, his eyes narrowing perceptively.

As he continued to gaze at it David experienced a flash of excitement and his hands tightened on the drawing. If anything, her designs for their winter collection were even more striking than her summer outfits. They were superb, in fact. The lines were understated and elegant, balanced by fine detailing, and she had cleverly combined the colours for wholly different effects. Her colour sense was extraordinary, even if it was a little daring. Only Emma could have conceived of such unusual mixtures-burgundy trimmed with bright pink, navy blue highlighted with apple green, vivid cyclamen flashed with lilac, and, on the other side of the spectrum, a mélange of rich autumnal tones enlivened by pure white, misty greys, and blues combined with violet, plus fir green sparked with rose. And they all worked beautifully together. Not only that, because of the simplicity of their basic construction, their clean lines and general lack of fussiness, her creations were ideal for the mass-manufacturing techniques he was employing at the factory.

David smiled with pleasure and pride in Emma. He did not know where her artistic gifts sprang from, but they were indisputable and her taste was matchless, her flair unrivalled. He had long come to recognize, and with not a little wonder, that Emma possessed natural genius. There was no other term appropriate to describe her incredible talent and, coupled with her prodigious energy, it made her formidable. Apart from her brilliance as a designer, she had an innate understanding of the public’s whims, an uncanny knack of discerning ahead of time what they wanted and, more importantly, what they would buy. It was as if she had a daemon telling her things, and all of her ventures were instantaneous successes. David suspected that Emma Harte would make money at whatever she decided to turn her hand to, for her touch was golden. Both he and his father had been staggered at her total grasp of financial matters and her capacity for structuring complex monetary schemes, all of which stood up to their accountant’s scrutiny and won his astonished approval. She read a balance sheet the way other people read a newspaper and she could pinpoint its flaws and its virtues in a matter of minutes. She was only just twenty-one and already she was scaling ambition’s ladder with the swiftest and most determined of steps. It seemed to David that nothing could hold her back-it would have been like trying to harness lightning, he had long ago decided. She continually managed to amaze him and he dare not speculate where she would be in ten years’ time. At the top of that ladder, he conjectured, and the prospects were dizzying.

David placed the sketch with the others and lit a cigarette. Things were proceeding on schedule and exactly as he had planned. He had been in business for four months, with Emma and Joe Lowther as his partners. Emma also acted as the designer and stylist, and his brother, Victor, was the factory manager. In one month David would be twenty-five, and he had no doubts whatsoever about the future of the Kallinski Clothing Company, or his own destiny. He intended to be a rich and important member of the community; and the whole of Leeds, indeed if not Yorkshire, would take notice of him one day. That was a promise he had made to himself years ago and he had every intention of keeping that promise.

David had launched into business on his own with flair, assurance, and aggressiveness and it had been a fortuitous start. At the initial showing of the summer collection, the first samples had been received with enthusiasm by the buyers from the big emporiums in Leeds, Bradford, Sheffield, and Manchester, who had fortunately followed up their accolades with surprisingly large orders. The tremendous energy that Emma, Victor, and he had expended, and the long hours they had put in to get the first collection under way, had certainly been justified.

David could not resist shuffling through the sketches once more. He spread them out on the floor and his excitement was barely contained. Yes, by God, she had done it again! This new line could not be bettered by any other manufacturer in Leeds, or even London for that matter. He was absolutely confident that after the winter showing the orders would be huge. He had heady visions of tripling the amount of business he would do in the next few months, for, like Emma, David Kallinski was a born salesman-charming, suave, and utterly dedicated to business.

Emma interrupted his thoughts as she came into the room carrying a steak-and-kidney pie from the storage cellar. David looked up and caught his breath. She had changed into one of their samples and it was enormously becoming to her. Although the style of the dress was not particularly revealing, being tailored and dignified, the fine wool clung to her lovely figure, gently outlining the high curve of her breasts, the rounded smoothness of her thighs, and the length of her graceful legs. The dress was of a dark bottle green and this colour served to emphasize the brilliance of her eyes and the translucency of her skin. He noticed she had done something different with that magnificent and abundant hair. It was pulled back as always, so that the widow’s peak was highly visible, but she had brushed it loose for once and then captured the thick tresses in a dark green net, a sort of snood topped by a small green velvet bow. The netted russet hair fell to her shoulders and framed her incomparable face and it gave her an innocent look. She’s the the most alluring creature in the world, David thought wonderingly.

Uncomfortably aware of his prolonged examination of her, Emma halted, frowning. ‘Don’t you like the designs, David?’ she asked, misunderstanding the expression on his face.

‘Good God, yes!’ he cried. ‘They’re excellent, Emma. No, that’s an understatement. They’re outstanding. You’ve done a fantastic job. Truly.’

Emma smiled. ‘Don’t exaggerate,’ she demurred, but she sighed with relief. After she had placed the pie in the oven, she glided over and sat on the floor at his feet, her back to the fire. She sorted through the sketches, expounding quickly on each one, her face revealing her zeal. She suggested minor changes to some of the designs, explained her ideas on the cutting and manufacturing processes most suitable, and volunteered her thoughts about costing. When they had first started, Emma had applied strict cost accounting to every phase of manufacturing and because of this they would be able to produce more for less than their competitors. She reiterated those points and David leaned forward, eagerness washing over his fine young face. He listened carefully, making mental notes of everything she said. Her advice had proved to be sound, and he always followed it.

When Emma had finished, David said, ‘There’s only one thing we didn’t think about-a name for the line. We must come up with one immediately, because I’ve already put the summer collection into production and I must order the labels. I don’t think Kallinski Clothes is a very exciting name, do you?’

Emma looked up quickly. Not wanting to hurt his feelings, she hesitated before saying, ‘Not really. It’s not-well-it’s not very feminine, David. But I don’t have any ideas. Why don’t you ask Victor? He’s very bright about such things.’

David broke into a grin. ‘I guessed you’d suggest that and so I did already. Victor came up with one name this afternoon. I sort of like it, though I’m not sure that you will approve. He suggested we use the name of your famous namesake.’

‘My famous namesake? Who on earth does he mean? I didn’t know I had one.’

‘I didn’t know either, I’m ashamed to admit. Just goes to show how ignorant we are. He meant the first Emma Hart. That’s Hart without the e.’

Undisguised curiosity flickered on to Emma’s face. ‘The first Emma Hart,’ she echoed. ‘Who is she?’

‘The first Emma Hart was quite a famous lady, or infamous, depending on how you look at it. Let me explain. Your namesake married Sir William Hamilton and became Lady Hamilton. That’s the name Victor suggested we adopt.’ David laughed at her bewilderment. ‘Emma Hart was Nelson’s Lady Hamilton. His great love. His mistress. His bequest to the nation in his renowned will, so Victor tells me. Don’t you remember your history books, my girl?’ he teased.

‘Oh, that Lady Hamilton! Mmmmm. It’s not a bad name actually. Not bad at all,’ she mused. ‘Rather distinguished, when you think about it. Lady Hamilton Dresses. No, since We are making suits and coats as well, it would have to be Lady Hamilton Clothes, wouldn’t it?’

‘Yes, it would. Do you really like it, Emma? To be honest with you, I took to it at once, but I wanted to discuss it with you before I had the labels made. What do you say?’

Emma pondered, repeating the name in her head. It did have a catchy ring to it and it was rather classy. She remembered that Nelson was Winston’s great naval hero. Perhaps this was a good omen. Maybe the name would be lucky. ‘Yes, I do like it! Let’s use it, David.’

‘What about Joe? Shouldn’t we ask his opinion?’

‘Good heavens, David, surely you know Joe will approve of anything we suggest. You don’t have to worry about him.’ She laughed. ‘What would we do without Victor? We’re such a couple of illiterates, aren’t we?’

‘Perhaps we are, but we know how to make money, Anyway, how about a spot of sherry to celebrate selecting the name?’ David stood up, bending over Emma. He offered her his outstretched hands and helped her up off the floor.

As Emma rose she lifted her head and smiled into David’s face. Their eyes met and held. They stared at each other for a suspended moment, unable to look away, bright blue gaze impaled on one of vivid green. Emma felt an internal quivering, as she always did these days whenever David touched her. A flush rose to her face, and her heart began to pound unreasonably. She continued to stare into his adoring face, hypnotized by that sapphire blaze so full of yearning.

Long aware of her hesitancy and reserve, David moved swiftly. He pulled her into his arms, his mouth seeking hers. His lips touched her lips and he parted them gently but firmly. Emma felt the warm sweetness of his tongue and her senses overwhelmed her. Her fingers flew to the back of his head involuntarily and ran through his crisp black hair, and it was as if her touch was a firebrand. David held her closer to him, his strong hands sliding down over her shoulders to the small of her back. His palms pressed her slender body into his own muscular one and, as his embrace tightened, Emma felt the rise of his own desire against her thigh. It had been like this for several weeks now-the kissing, the touching, the ardent glances. Every time they were alone together they were both engulfed by a consciousness of their bodies straining for fulfilment in each other.

David assaulted Emma’s emotions in a way that made her breathless and reeling. Her latent ardour, only tentatively and fleetingly awakened years before and then submerged, was surfacing with increasing persistency when David kissed her and held her in his arms. Emma trembled with a mixture of apprehension and alarm, old familiars that constantly assailed her in his presence. She tried to fight her clamouring feelings, but her mind floundered and she gave herself up to his sensual kisses.

They gravitated to the sofa without releasing their hold on each other and fell on to it. David bent over Emma, his eyes locked on hers and brimming with longing. His image filled her vision until she was lost in it, and she closed her eyes. David stroked her face and kissed her eyelids, her forehead, and her lips. Very carefully, he untied the green velvet bow and removed the net so that her hair was released in a cascade over her shoulders. He ran his hand through it, marvelling at her beauty and the fervency of the passion she aroused in him. He burned to possess her fully, and he knew he would never let her go.

David’s vivid eyes roved over her body, lying so languorous on the sofa, and he was unable to restrain himself further. He began to caress her face, her neck, her shoulders, and her breasts, and a choking sensation filled his throat when her nipples hardened under his touch through the fine fabric of the dress. His desire spiralled into an exquisite pain that was almost unendurable.

Emma opened her eyes and she saw a fleeting flash of anguish smudge out the blueness of his eyes so that they became dark and intense. David moved closer to her and gripped her shoulders, and his mouth was demanding and hard on hers. He covered her body with his own, pressing down on her, and Emma rejoiced in the weight of him.

His voice was rasping in the hollow of her neck. ‘Oh, Emma! Emma, darling! I can’t stand this!’

‘I know, David, I know,’ she murmured. She smoothed his darkly curling hair and held his head against her breast, cradling him in her arms. Her hand stroked his broad shoulders and a cry of longing trembled on her lips. She bent her head and rested it on his and her hair drifted down around them like a silken veil. A long sigh rippled through her and she acknowledged that she loved David Kallinski and wanted him for herself, for the rest of her life, but her natural rectitude, coupled with her terrible fear of the consequences of sexual intimacy out of wedlock, would not permit her to succumb to her overwhelming emotions. It was not that she did not trust David. She did. She knew he would never betray her. He was no Edwin Fairley. And yet she bit down on those insistent desires, stifling them, and finally she denied him in her mind if not in her heart.

Very quietly Emma whispered into his hair, ‘We have to stop this, David. It’s getting worse every time, and it’s not fair to you. We must not let the situation get out of hand.’ She pushed him away from her with the utmost gentleness and sat up, dizzy and shaking.

David leaned back against the sofa and picked up a strand of her hair. He kissed it and then let it fall. He half smiled. ‘Emma, I love you so much. Don’t be afraid of me. I won’t hurt you. Ever.’

Emma flinched at this deadly echo from the past. ‘I’m not afraid of you, David,’ she answered quietly. ‘I’m afraid of myself when I’m with you like this and what might happen when we get so-so-’

‘Please don’t.’ He placed a finger on her lips ‘I agree with you. We can’t go on like this. It’s insanity. But we must be together, Emma. I can’t bear this torment for much longer.’ He grasped her hand, his face earnest. ‘Marry me, Emma. As soon as possible,’ he implored. ‘We must get married, you know that.’

‘Married!’ she cried.

David smiled. ‘Yes, married. Don’t sound so shocked. I’ve wanted to marry you for the last few years. I’ve only held myself in check because of your circumstances.’ He chuckled. ‘Did you think I had dishonourable intentions, Emma? I would never attempt to compromise you. I love you far too much-’ David stopped abruptly, staring at her, his eyes wide with surprise. ‘Emma, what’s wrong? You’re as white as a sheet!’

‘I cannot marry you, David,’ Emma said in a low strangled voice.

‘But why not? Don’t be ridiculous!’ He actually laughed, so disbelieving was he of her words. ‘I told you I love you and I know you love me. It’s the most natural outcome, isn’t it? For us to get married. That’s what people do when they love each other, Emma.’

Emma stood up unsteadily and moved across the floor. She looked out of the window and her eyes filled with tears. She discovered she was unable to answer him.

David gaped at her stiff back, her tensely set shoulders, baffled by her behaviour. ‘What is it, Emma? For God’s sake answer me!’ he demanded.

‘I cannot marry you, David. Please, let’s leave it at that,’ Emma said blinking back her tears.

‘Of course you can!’ David asserted fiercely. ‘There is nothing to stop you now. Your husband is dead. You are free.’ David paused, and when he spoke again it was with quiet intensity. ‘Emma, I love you more than anyone or anything on this earth. I want to cherish and protect you with my life, for the rest of my life. We belong together, Emma. I know that deep in my heart. And so do you. There is something very special between us-an unbreakable bond.’ Still she did not respond and another thought occurred to David. ‘Is it because of Edwina?’ he asked quickly. ‘You don’t have to worry about her. I’m not afraid of responsibility. I will adopt her, Emma, and the three of us can live together. We’ll be happy and I-’

‘It’s not because of Edwina.’

‘Then give me a good reason why you won’t marry me!’ he commanded, his face pale and washed with anxiety.

‘David, I cannot marry you because your mother would never accept me. She would never approve of you marrying out of the faith. Surely I don’t have to point that out to you. She wants you to marry a Jewish girl who will give her Jewish grandchildren-’

‘To hell with all that!’ David interrupted, his voice rising angrily. ‘I don’t care what my mother wants, Emma. I want you for my wife and that’s all that counts.’

‘I can’t hurt your mother,’ Emma whispered. ‘She’s been wonderful to me, almost like a second mother. I love her and I won’t betray her. You’re her eldest son, David. It would kill her if we married. I admit she’s very fond of me, but it would not be quite the same thing-welcoming me as a daughter-in-law. Me a Gentile and she so Orthodox. Please listen to what I say, David. It’s the truth and you must face it.’

David leaned forward on the sofa, his hands tightly clenched. ‘I want you to look me in the eye and tell me you do not love me, Emma. Turn around and tell me that.’

‘I can’t,’ Emma said quietly.

‘Why not?’ he shouted, his voice breaking.

‘Because I do love you, David. Just as much as you love me.’ Emma swung around slowly and crossed the floor. She knelt down at his feet and stared up into his face. She touched it fleetingly.

He clasped her tightly in his arms, smoothing her hair, kissing her tear-stained cheeks. ‘Then that’s all that matters, my darling. That’s all that matters.’

‘No, David.’ Emma pulled away and rose, seating herself next to him. ‘Other things matter in life. I am not going to be responsible for creating heartache and pain for your parents. I will not divide your family. They have been too good to me. Besides, I couldn’t live with myself.’ She searched his obdurate face. ‘David, don’t you understand that it’s not possible to build happiness on other people’s misery? It might be all right at first, if we did marry, but eventually their anguish and disappointment would come between us. It would chip away at what we have, and finally destroy it.’

David had been staring at her capable little hand clasping his tightly. It was so small and curiously defenceless. At last he raised his eyes and saw the candour in her green gaze and he knew she had meant every word. But he could not prevent himself from crying, ‘Are you trying to tell me that you are willing to sacrifice our happiness, mine and yours, just because of some religious beliefs that are not only outdated but utterly ridiculous! I can’t believe it. Not you. Not my Emma. The stalwart Emma who would fight the world for anything she wanted!’

‘Yes, I suppose I am. But it’s not really like that, David. Please, try and understand-’ She broke off. She had hurt him profoundly and she could not bear it.

David extracted his hand from hers and moved it across his face. He felt horribly faint to a point of nausea and an intolerable pain moved across his chest. It seemed that his life was draining away. It was as if someone had suddenly snatched his hopes and dreams and the promise of the future from his grasp. But he knew what Emma said was indeed true. He knew, too, that she would not change her mind, just as his mother would not.

David leapt up and paced in front of the fire. Finally, after a few minutes, he stopped and turned to Emma, staring at her. ‘Is that your last word?’ he asked so quietly she could scarcely hear him.

‘Yes, David. I’m sorry, but I can’t destroy your mother.’

‘I understand, Emma. You must excuse me. I have to leave. Sorry about the dinner, but I seem to have lost my appetite.’ He strode out before she could see the tears swimming in his eyes.

Emma stood up swiftly. ‘David! Wait! Please wait!’ The door slammed behind him and she was alone. She gazed at the door for a long moment and then picked up the sketches and placed them in the cupboard. Vaguely she thought of the dinner spoiling in the oven, but such intense feelings of dejection and misery overcame her she did not have the strength to remove the food. Her thoughts centred on David and not on herself, for unconsciously she had always known their relationship was doomed. They could be friends and business partners, but that was all. She had spent enough time with Janessa Kallinski to understand that David’s mother would not tolerate anything else. Emma sat for a long time looking into the empty room and David’s face swam before her. She would never forget that awful look of hurt on his face as long as she lived.

About an hour later Emma was roused from her stupor by a loud banging on the door. David had come back! She flew out into the small hallway, her heart leaping, his name on her lips. She flung open the door with eagerness and found herself staring into the bulbous face of Gerald Fairley.

Emma was so dumbfounded she momentarily lost all power of speech. But immediately her hand tightened on the knob and she stiffened, alerted for trouble. She tried to close the door but he had anticipated her. He pushed himself inside and closed the door firmly behind him.

Emma found her voice. ‘What do you want?’ she asked coldly. How had he managed to find her?

Gerald grinned. ‘Aren’t you going to invite me in, Emma?’ he asked.

‘No. I have nothing to say to you. Please leave immediately,’ she said, summoning all of her courage and adopting her iciest tone.

Gerald, after all the years of gorging himself, was revolting in his incredible obesity, a mountain of flesh and powerfully strong. There was a derisive expression on his blubbery face. ‘Not on your life! I have a few words to say to you, Mrs Harte,’ he exlaimed with disdain.

‘I repeat, I have nothing to say to you. Please leave.’

‘Where’s the child?’ countered Gerald, his sly eyes full of malicious intent.

‘What child?’ said Emma coolly, but her legs shook and she longed for help, for David to return.

Gerald laughed in her face. ‘Come on, don’t give me that! I know you had Edwin’s child. There’s no use denying it. He confessed it to me this weekend. You see, I told him I had found you. Quite by accident, of course, since I wasn’t looking for you. The silly fool wanted to come and see you, wanted to help you and his child. But I couldn’t permit that.’ Gerald brought his bloated face closer. Emma drew back against the wall, hardly breathing. Gerald smiled. ‘It’s a small world, Emma. We bought Thompson’s mill last week. Imagine my surprise when I saw your name on the old books. You used to work there as a weaver, before you came up in the world. Went into trade, I see,’ he said disparagingly. ‘Now, where’s the baby?’

‘I did not have a child,’ Emma insisted, clenching her hands by her sides.

‘Don’t lie to me. It would be very easy for me to check it out. Remember one thing, Mrs Harte. I have money and power. I can go to the local hospital-St Mary’s, isn’t it?-and after a few pounds have changed hands in the right quarters I can look at the records any time I want.’

Emma’s heart sank. She knew he spoke the truth. Despite this, she was determined not to admit anything. ‘I did not have a child,’ she repeated, her gaze unflickering.

‘Oh, come on, Emma, tie one on the other leg and pull it. Edwin wouldn’t confess such a thing if it were not true, especially since he is about to become engaged to Lady Jane Stansby.’ Gerald grabbed her arm. ‘I have the feeling you might use this child to blackmail Edwin later. That’s common practice with tramps from the working class. But I aim to circumvent that. The Fairleys cannot afford a scandal. So come on, out with it. Where’s the little bastard? And was it a girl or a boy?’

Emma glared at him. ‘I told you, I did not have Edwin’s child,’ she said harshly, and her eyes blazed with intense hatred. She pulled her arm away. ‘And if you ever lay a finger on me again, Gerald Fairley, I will kill you!’

He laughed and then his eyes shifted to the stairs illuminated by the dim glow from the bedroom lamp. He shoved her out of the way abruptly and bounded up the steps. Emma recovered her balance and flew up after him. ‘How dare you push your way into my home! I shall go and fetch the police!’ she cried.

Gerald had disappeared into the bedroom, and when Emma hurried in she found him pulling out drawers and flinging their contents all over the room. ‘What do you think you’re doing?’ she shouted, shaking with rage.

‘Looking for some evidence of the child you say you never had. I want to know where it is and who has it. I want to get to the bottom of this before you can cause any trouble.’

Emma stood rigidly still in the middle of the room, and her eyes held a dangerous gleam. Gerald Fairley was a bumbling fool. He would find nothing here that would lead him to Edwina.

Gerald turned, glaring, his great body swaying hideously as he lumbered across the floor. He grabbed her shoulders and began to shake her with such violence her head flew backwards and forwards. ‘Bitch! You’re nothing but a whoring bitch! Out with it! Where’s the child?’

Spots of bright colour stained her pale cheeks, but nasty insinuations slid over her, leaving no real impression, for Gerald Fairley was beneath her scorn. ‘There is no child,’ Emma said through gritted teeth. ‘And let go of me, you foul monstrosity.’

Gerald continued to shake her harder than ever, his huge hands biting into her shoulders until she winced with pain. Suddenly he released her unexpectedly and threw her from him so forcibly Emma staggered and fell back on to the bed.

Gerald took in the richness of her tumbling hair, her ravishing face, the provocativeness of her shapely figure, and something stirred in him. He began to laugh as he eyed her lasciviously. ‘How about a little of what you so willingly gave to my baby brother, Emma Harte? Women like you are usually ready for it any time of day or night. How about a bit of loving, Mrs Harte? Edwin always did have a sharp eye for a looker. I don’t mind baby brother’s leavings.’

Emma gaped at him, so stupefied she found she was paralysed. He advanced towards her and she saw, to her revulsion, that he was unbuttoning his trousers. She shrank back against the pillows, and then she tried to scramble off the bed. But it was too late. He was on her, his great weight crushing her back. He struggled with her skirt, attempting to lift it. Emma began to kick her legs, and Gerald grinned, holding her down with one arm. His face drew closer and he lowered his lips to her face. Emma moved her head from side to side, fighting with him, pushing him off, but although she was physically strong he was too much for her. He began to roll on top of her, grunting and moaning, pressing his horrendous body against hers, trying to pull up her skirts, without success, for he was hampered by his enormous weight. The grunting and the moaning and the rolling became more violent and then, with a final shudder, he went limp next to her and lay back on the bed depleted. Emma pushed herself up and sprang on to the floor, her breath coming in short, rapid pants. As she moved away from him her hand caught the side of her dress. It was horribly wet. A feeling of repugnance rose up in her throat, and she thought she would vomit. She flew to the tangled mass of clothes and linens scattered on the floor and grabbed a towel. She wiped her dress clean and then leapt to the sewing table. Her fingers curled around the scissors and she picked them up, and swung on Gerald, her eyes filled with murderous lights.

‘Get up and get out, before I kill you!’ she gasped with such venom he looked at her startled and taken unawares. She moved across the floor, the scissors raised in her hand like a dagger. Gerald’s face blanched. She hovered over him. ‘I tell you, I will kill you, Gerald Fairley, if you don’t move that obscene body out of here at once!’

Gerald laughed mockingly. ‘I don’t think you would be foolish enough to do that,’ he said. He sat up and buttoned his trousers, insolently taking his time.

‘Don’t tempt me!’ she hissed.

Gerald heaved himself off the bed. ‘I must say, I like a tiger, Emma. Makes it more exciting. I’ll be back, my girl. And next time you’ll be more co-operative.’ He nonchalantly flicked the collar of her dress. ‘This will be off and everything else. You’ll be ready and waiting for me. I want to savour that beautiful body of yours, enjoy a bit of working-class rutting. I hear you’re all like rabbits.’ He grinned. ‘What’s good enough for the handsome Edwin is certainly good enough for me!’

Emma had the most overwhelming impulse to spit in his face, but she exercised restraint, not wishing to lower herself to his level. ‘Leave my house immediately, Gerald Fairley, and don’t ever come back-unless you want to encounter real trouble.’

He swung around, stumbling down the stairs, laughing raucously. Emma followed him, her rage fulminating. She stood at the top of the stairs and watched him descend, ponderously dragging his immense weight. She flung the scissors after him angrily and they rattled on the stone steps, landing at his feet. He looked up, leering at her. ‘That’s not polite,’ he said.

‘You’re not worth swinging for, Gerald Fairley!’ she screamed. Emma now sped down the stairs, propelled by her mounting fury. When she reached the bottom step she stared up at him, utterly fearless and totally in command of herself, her hatred blazing on her face.

She took a step nearer and said with deadly coldness, ‘But I will ruin you! All of you! The Fairleys will rue the day they ever heard the name Emma Harte. Do you hear me? I will ruin you! I swear I will!’

‘You ruin us! You? A whoring little tramp? Fat chance you have.’ Gerald chucked her under the chin lightly and, infuriated, Emma struck out at him. Her nails clawed his face and brought blood.

‘Why, you bloody little bitch!’ Gerald shouted, and then he threw back his hideous head and laughed. ‘I like a tiger, Mrs Harte, as I said before. Don’t forget, I’ll be back. I’m always in the vicinity. I’ll pop in one afternoon for a bit of fun.’

‘Get out! Get out!’

The moment the door banged behind him Emma turned the key and drew the bolts hurriedly. She went into the parlour and closed the curtains and washed the disgusting stain off her dress, scrubbing it with a cloth until it was spotless. Then she sat down in front of the fire, her body convulsed by dry heaving sobs. She felt sick and shaken and apprehensive. For the first time in years she was once again afraid of the Fairleys. Thank God Edwina was in Ripon. Gerald would never find her there. But he was just stupid enough to come back here and the idea petrified her.

The world’s a jungle, she said, shivering in a huddle before the dying fire. And I’m still vulnerable to the animals in it. I do not have enough money yet with which to build a wall around Edwina and myself. We are painfully exposed. I need protection. She thought then of David with longing and despair. What she needed was a husband. That was most palpably obvious to her now. But David, her darling David, was forbidden to her. As much as they loved each other the objections of his family would drive a wedge between them. Her mind raced. Where could she find a husband who would protect her and Edwina? Whom could she marry? It came to her in a flash. Joe Lowther! She knew he loved her. The problem was, she did not love Joe. She liked him. How could she not? He was decent and kind and dependable. If she married Joe she would be cheating him of that most important of all things in a marriage-love. She also had to face the fact that she would have to share his bed, submit to his sexual advances, and bear his children. She went cold at this prospect. How could she willingly give herself to another man when David filled her heart and her soul? And yet she had no alternative. Emma began to weep, her sobs reverberating in the stillness of the little parlour.

‘Forgive me, David,’ she cried. ‘Forgive me for what I’m about to do, my darling.’