Barbara Bradford - A Woman of Substance

She paused and gave her father a long look that was also loving, and she softened her voice considerably. ‘He’ll write, our Winston will, when he gets settled in. So just leave him be, as I said afore.’

Jack nodded, for he respected Emma’s judgement. ‘Yes, luv, there’s common sense in what thee says. He always did want ter get away from Fairley.’ Jack sighed. ‘I can’t say as I blame him for that, mind thee. It was just the way he did it, sneaking off like.’

Emma couldn’t help smiling. ‘Well, Dad, I expect he knew if he asked yer permission yer’d have said no, and that’s why he ran off, afore yer could stop him.’ She stood up and went over and hugged her father. ‘Come on, Dad luv, cheer up. Why don’t yer go ter the pub, and have yerself a pint, and enjoy a bit of company with the lads,’ she suggested. Fully expecting him to dismiss this suggestion, as he always did of late, she was amazed when he said, ‘Aye, I thinks I will, lass.’

Later, after her father had left for the White Horse, Emma turned to Frank. ‘I wish yer hadn’t said that, Frank, about Winston forging me dad’s signature and it not being legal, and getting Winston out of the navy. It only upsets our dad more. Now listen ter me, luvey-’ She shook her forefinger at Frank, her face grave. ‘I don’t want no more talk about our Winston when I’ve gone back ter the Hall. Do yer hear, our Frankie?’

‘Yes, Emma,’ said Frank, biting his lip. ‘I’m sorry, Emma. I didn’t mean owt wrong. I didn’t think owt of it. Don’t be cross with me.’

‘I’m not, luv. But just think on what I said, when yer alone with our dad.’

‘I will. And, Emma.’

‘Yes, luvey?’

‘Please don’t call me Frankie.’

Emma concealed a smile of amusement. He was so serious and adopting such a grown-up air. ‘All right, Frank. Now, I thinks yer’d best be getting yerself ready for bed. It’s eight o’clock and we all have ter be up early for work termorrow. And don’t sit up half the night reading yer newspapers and books.’ She clucked and shook her head. ‘No wonder we never have any candles! Off yer go, lad. And I’ll be up in a minute ter tuck yer in. And I’ll bring yer a glass of milk, and an apple, as a special treat.’

He scowled at her. ‘What do yer think I am, Emma Harte? A big baby? I don’t wants yer ter tuck me in,’ he cried as he picked up his notebook and newspapers. He turned when he went out of the kitchen door. ‘But I’d like the apple,’ he said with a small grin.

After she had washed up the dirty supper dishes stacked in the sink, Emma went upstairs. Frank was sitting up in bed, writing in his notebook. Emma put the apple and the milk on the table and sat down on the bed. ‘And what’s this yer writing now, our Frank?’ she asked curiously. Like her father, she was constantly astonished by Frank’s superior intelligence and his fertile brain. He also had an amazingly retentive memory.

‘It’s a g-g-h-o-s-t s-t-o-r-y,’ he told her in a moaning voice. He looked at her solemnly and made his eyes large. ‘A ghost story! All about haunted houses, and the spirits of the dead rising from their graves, and walking around. Oooooohhh!’ he whispered, his voice low and ominous. He fluttered the sheet at her. ‘Shall I read it for yer, our Emma? It’ll scare yer ter death,’ he warned.

‘No! Thanks very much! And don’t be so daft,’ she cried, straightening the sheet. Then she shivered involuntarily, at the same time chiding herself for being foolish, for she knew Frank was teasing her. But the grim superstitions of the North were ingrained in her, and gooseflesh rose on her arms. Emma cleared her throat and assumed a superior expression. ‘And where’s all this scribbling going ter get yer, our Frank? It’s a waste of the good paper I brings home from the Hall, if yer asks me. Yer can’t make no money, scribbling this junk.’

‘Yes, yer can!’ he cried with such extraordinary violence she was startled. ‘And I’ll tell yer where it’s going ter get me. On to a newspaper when I’m a big lad. Maybe even the Yorkshire Morning Gazette. That’s what!’ He outstared her, and finished, ‘Stick that in yer pipe and smoke it, Emma Harte.’

Laughter bubbled in Emma’s throat, but comprehending he was in earnest, she kept her face straight. ‘I see,’ she remarked coolly. ‘But not till yer grown up. In a few years perhaps we’ll think about it.’

‘Yes, Emma,’ he said, and bit into the apple. ‘Ooh, Emma, this is luvely. Thank yer.’

Emma smiled and smoothed his rumpled hair and kissed him in her motherly fashion. His small skinny arms went around her neck and he nuzzled against her affectionately, and with yearning. ‘I luv yer, Emma. Ever so much,’ he whispered.

‘I luv yer, too, Frankie,’ she answered, hugging him tightly. And on this occasion he did not reprimand her for using the diminutive.

‘Don’t stay up all night now, luv,’ Emma told him as she quietly closed the door of his room.

‘No, I won’t. I promise, Emma.’

It was dark on the cold stone-flagged landing, and Emma edged her way into her own bedroom and carefully felt her way to the stand by the narrow bed. She groped for the matches and lit the stub of candle in the brass candle holder. The wick flickered tenuously, illuminating the blackness with a pale light. The tiny room was so frugally furnished it was virtually empty, but, like the rest of the cottage, it was scrupulously clean. Emma carried the candle over to a large wooden trunk in one corner of the room. She placed it on the window ledge nearby, and, kneeling down, she lifted the heavy lid of the trunk. A strong odour of camphor balls and dried lavender floated up out of the trunk. This had belonged to her mother and all of the things in it were Emma’s now. Her dad had told her that had been her mother’s wish. Emma had only looked once in the trunk, and hurriedly at that, since her mother’s death. Until tonight she had been too emotional and grief-stricken to sort through her mother’s treasured possessions.

She lifted out a black silk dress, old but hardly ever worn, and therefore still in good condition. She would try it on next weekend. She was quite sure it would fit her, with a few alterations. Underneath the black dress was her mother’s simple white wedding gown. Emma touched it tenderly. The lace on it was yellowed with age. Wrapped in a piece of faded blue silk she found a small bouquet of flowers, dried and withered and falling apart. They had that sweet and sickly smell of dead roses. She wondered why her mother had kept them, what significance they had. But she would never know the answer to that now. There were some pieces of fine lawn underwear, obviously part of her mother’s meagre trousseau, a black shawl embroidered with red roses, and a straw bonnet trimmed with flowers.

At the very bottom of the trunk was a small wooden box. Emma had seen the box many times before, when her mother had taken it out to select a piece of jewellery on very special and important occasions. Emma opened it with the small key sticking out of the lock. There was not very much jewellery in the box, and what there was had practically no value at all. She took out the garnet brooch and earrings her mother had always worn at Christmas and weddings and christenings, and on other such special days. It occurred to Emma, as she looked at them lying in her hands, that the stones were like dark rubies shimmering in the candlelight. Her mother had favoured the garnets above everything else she owned.

‘I’ll never part with these,’ Emma said aloud, swallowing hard as her eyes misted over. She laid them on the floor and poked around in the box. There was a small cameo brooch and a silver ring, both of which she examined with interest. She tried on the ring. It fitted her perfectly. Her hand went back into the box and her fingers lighted on the gold cross and chain her mother had almost always worn. Emma grimaced. She wanted no reminders of God, who no longer existed for her. That was why she refused to go to Sunday school, even though her truancy annoyed her dad. She dropped the cross and chain on the floor next to the garnets, and lifted out a string of amber beads that were large and cool to her touch. They glowed with a deep golden colour, and to Emma’s eye they had distinction. They had been a gift from a very grand lady, so her mam had told her several years ago.