A Woman of Substance (36 page)

‘I just don’t understand how our Winston could do a thing like that,’ Big Jack Harte said to Emma. ‘Running away so soon after thee mam died, without so much as a ta’rar.’

‘But he did leave yer a note, Dad,’ Emma said quickly. When he made no response, she went on, ‘Don’t worry, Dad. He’ll come ter no harm in the navy. He’s a big lad, and he can take care of himself.’ She leaned across the table and squeezed his arm in a reassuring way.

‘Aye, I knows that, lass. Still an’ all, it was right deceitful of him ter do a moonlight flit, packing his stuff and creeping out in t’middle of t’night. It weren’t like our Winston at all,’ Jack grumbled, his disgruntlement obvious. He shook his head. ‘And there’s summat else—
I’d
like ter know how he managed ter get inter the Royal Navy without me signature on his papers. He’s under age, thee knows, Emma, and he would’ve had to have me signature on ’em.’

Emma sighed. This conversation had been going on endlessly and repetitively for the last three days, since she had come home from the Hall, and it was beginning to irritate her.

But before she could answer, Frank piped up, ‘He forged yer signature, Dad. Yes, I
bet
that’s what he did! He had ter do that, ter get the recruiting officer ter accept him.’

Emma threw Frank the most furious glance, and said harshly, ‘Hush up, Frank. Yer just a little tiddler. Yer don’t know owt about such things.’

Frank was sitting at the other side of the kitchen, scribbling away, as was usual these days. He said, in a matter-of-fact tone, ‘I knows all sorts of things, our Emma. From them there illustrated magazines and newspapers yer brings home from the Hall. I reads every line, yer knows.’

‘Then I’ll have ter stop bringing ’em,’ she snapped. ‘If they’re going ter make yer so big-headed and cheeky. Yer getting ter be a right know-it-all, our Frank.’

‘Oh, Emma, leave the bairn alone,’ Jack muttered. He sucked on his pipe, engrossed in his thoughts, and then he said, ‘Frank’s right, yer knows. Our Winston must’ve forged me signature. No two ways about it, that’s what he did. Sure as eggs is eggs.’

‘I expect he did,’ said Emma, ‘since that’s the only way he could’ve joined up. But what’s done is done, and there’s nowt we can do about it now. He’s more than likely well on his way—to wherever they’re sending him.’

‘Aye, lass,’ Jack said, settling back in the chair.

Emma was silent. She regarded her father intently, a worried frown slicing across her smooth wide brow. Her mother had been dead almost five months, and whilst Jack strived always to conceal his agonizing grief, Emma knew it was eating away at him inside. He had lost weight, for he hardly ate, and his great powerful body seemed to have shrunk. He was frighteningly contained, and, sometimes, when he was unaware of Emma’s close scrutiny, his eyes would fill with tears, and his sorrow was most shockingly revealed on his drawn face. Emma would turn away helplessly, her own grief rising up in her so rabidly she found it hard to conquer. But she had to control herself. Someone had to hold the family together, and that apathy which had assailed her father months before her mother’s death was even more apparent. Emma feared for her dad, and as the days went by her worry increased. Now this fresh problem of Winston’s stealthy departure last week had imbued in Jack a new despondency.

Emma sighed. She had temporarily postponed her Plan with a capital
P.
She could not bring herself to leave for Leeds just yet, in view of Winston’s scarpering off, even though she had saved quite a lot of shillings. She had over five pounds, a princely sum with which to finance the initial stages of her plan to make her fortune. But now was not the time to leave. And anyway, she had promised her mam she would look after the family. It was a promise that Emma felt honour-bound to keep. For the moment.

She picked up one of Olivia Wainright’s recipes, coated the back of it with paste she had made from flour and water, and stuck it carefully into her exercise book for future reference.
She looked at Olivia Wainright’s handwriting. It was so beautiful. Rounded and elegant and flowing. Emma was striving to copy it. She was also paying strict attention to the way Olivia spoke, for she was endeavouring to imitate the way she pronounced her words. Blackie kept telling Emma she would be a grand lady one day, and she knew grand ladies had to speak proper like. She corrected herself silently. Yer didn’t say ‘proper like’. You said ‘properly’, or ‘correctly’.

Suddenly, the silence in the small kitchen was broken, as Frank cried excitedly, ‘Hey, Dad, I just thought of summat. If our Winston forged yer signature, then his papers aren’t legal like, are they?’

Jack look startled at this mature comment from Frank, which he himself had not even thought of. He contemplated his youngest child in wonderment. Frank continually amazed him these days. Eventually, Big Jack said, ‘There’s summat in that, Frank. Aye, there is, lad.’ He was nothing short of impressed, for Frank was becoming a fountain of information, and all manner of intelligent comments fell from his lips when Jack least expected them.

‘So what?’ said Emma, glaring at Frank with open hostility, which was unparalleled for her, as protective as she was of Frank. But she wanted the subject of Winston’s running away dropped. She knew that prolonging the discussion would only upset her dad further.

‘If the papers aren’t legal, our Emma, then me dad can get him out of the navy. Don’t yer underatand? They’d have ter—ter—discharge him! For falsifying the papers. Yes, that’s it,’ shouted the triumphant Frank, delighted with his shrewd deduction.

‘He’s right, Emma,’ Jack said, his voice more positive, quite visibly cheering up.

‘Our Frank might be right, but how are yer going ter go about getting Winston out, Dad?’ Emma asked with her usual bluntness. ‘Are yer going ter write ter the Royal Navy then? And who would yer write ter, anyroads?’ She frowned at Frank, who had a pleased smile on his pale, freckled face. The boy was intelligent, Emma could not deny that, but he annoyed her when he created additional unrest in the house with his com
ments, which were sometimes far too clever for her liking.

‘Yer could ask the Squire what ter do, Dad,’ suggested Frank.

Jack mused on this, but Emma shrieked, ‘Ask the Squire what ter do? I wouldn’t ask him for owt. Why, he wouldn’t give yer ha’porth of spit without charging yer for it!’ Her voice was icy and dripped scorn.

Jack ignored her remarks, and now said, ‘Well, I could go inter Leeds and call at the recruiting office, and ask about our Winston. Find out where they sent him. What barracks he was shipped ter. They must’ve got records. And I could tell ’em what he did. Thee knows—forging me signature an’ all.’

Emma salt bolt upright in the chair, her face formidable, and said in her firmest tone, ‘Now listen ter me, our Dad. Yer not going ter do owt. Our Winston’s always wanted ter go inter the Royal Navy, and now he’s gone and done it. And think on one thing, our Dad. Winston’s better off in the navy than slogging long hours at the Fairley brickyard, working in all that dust and muck. Leave him be, Dad.’

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.