Barbara Bradford - A Woman of Substance

He composed himself and carried the drinks back to Wilson. ‘I wish Dr Mac would get here. I am extremely worried about Jack Harte,’ Adam said, handing Wilson the glass of whisky.

‘Aye, Squire, so am I. But Harte’s a fighter. He’ll pull through. He’s got them bairns ter think about, yer knows.’

Adam sighed. ‘I hope you’re right, Wilson. I sincerely do. I can never repay the debt I owe him for saving Edwin’s life.’

‘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.