Barbara Bradford - A Woman of Substance

‘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.