A Woman of Substance (59 page)

‘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.