The Miller's Daughter (36 page)

Then she was out of the house and into the night air, but even in the yard, the ground was littered with debris and the way was just as precarious. Glass crunched beneath her feet and a jagged
piece cut through her shoe and stabbed her foot.

‘Mary! Mary!’ she tried to call, but her voice was a hoarse, quavering sound that even she would not have recognized as her own. She found the gate to her backyard, miraculously
still intact and even fastened. She clicked up the catch, her sight now becoming accustomed to the dusk, so that now she could discern vague shadows. Pushing at the gate leading into Mary’s
backyard, she found the wooden door would only open a few inches before it hit something solid. ‘Mary! Mary! Are you all right? I can’t get in. Mary . . .’

Emma stood and listened for a moment. Not a sound came out of the grey shadows. The silence now, after all the noise, was uncanny and unnerving.

‘Mary!’

Behind her in the passageway between the two houses, there was a noise, the sound of rubble moving as someone climbed over it.

‘Mary?’

‘Wait there,’ a man’s voice said.

Emma drew a swift breath. The shadowy figure came closer, until she felt him reach for her, his fingers clasping her arms, pulling her closer. She began to struggle, thinking that it was Forbes
on duty as air raid warden in this district. Emma struggled to free one arm and, blindly, she lashed out, her hand striking against the side of his face.

‘Em – it’s me.’

Emma gasped. There was only one man who called her ‘Em’ and as she recognized the voice, that dear, beloved voice from her childhood, she flung herself against him. His arms were
tightly about her. He was holding her close and his lips were kissing her face, her cheek, her forehead and then searching for her mouth. She was clinging to him, weeping and laughing and crying
his name over and over.

‘William! William! oh, William . . .’

‘The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away.’ The words ran through her mind like a never-ending prayer as Emma stood in the street the following morning and watched
the men carrying Mary Porter’s lifeless body from the mound of rubble that had once been the Porters’ home. William, his strong arm supporting her, stood quietly beside Emma, who
gripped his hand in her own, oblivious to the curious stares of her neighbours, not caring who saw.

The night had taken her dear friend Mary from her, but, like a miracle, it had brought William to her when she needed him most.

They had pushed open the back gate into Mary’s yard and had seen that the Porters’ house had been demolished. Emma began to scrabble at the pile of bricks, crying, ‘Mary, Mary
. . .’ the tears streaming down her face until she felt William’s strong hands on her shoulders lifting her up and away. For a brief moment she struggled against him, but then gave way
and buried her face against him.

She heard the deep rumble of his voice in his chest as he said, ‘Em, if she was in there, there’s no way she can still be alive.’

‘But she might be under the table or—’

The Porters had no shelter, they shared Emma’s, but the air raid had come with such unannounced ferocity that there had been no time for Mary to run next door. Even Emma had not been able
to go the short distance from her own kitchen to the shelter in her front room. What chance, then, had Mary had?

‘There’s nothing we can do till we get more help,’ William had assured her. ‘If we go plunging about and disturb more rubble, we could do worse damage than has already
been done.’

She knew the sense of his statement but it was hard to turn away. It was hard to wait when her friend might be lying dreadfully injured beneath the debris and no one was trying to reach her.
‘Ought we to find the wardens? What about Alf – her husband? Oh, we ought to find Alf.’

‘Where is he?’ William asked.

‘He’ll be on fire watch duty.’

Through the deepening darkness she heard William’s sigh. ‘Then there’s no knowing where he’ll be.’ William was silent a moment before he said, ‘Em – the
raid was a bad one coming so unexpectedly. The rescue teams will be fully stretched.’

‘But we must do something.’

‘Come on, then,’ he said, finding her hand. ‘Let’s go out into the street. See if we can find anyone.’

Clinging to William, she climbed over the debris blocking the passageway. In the street, neighbours were gathering.

‘Someone’s gone to find Alf Porter,’ someone said.

‘There’s nothing we can do. Thank God there’s no fire.’

‘You come to my place, Mrs Smith,’ a voice came out of the darkness

‘No, no, thanks. It’s very kind of you, but I must stay here in case Billy comes home.’

‘All right, love. But if you want owt, just knock on our door.’

One or two men started to move some of the wreckage, but as they did so part of a wall still standing crumbled.

‘Look out! It’s coming down!’ the shout went up and the men scuttled back out of the way.

‘We’ll have to wait for daylight.’

The decision was taken and although it was the sensible one, no one there liked it. Worriedly, Emma allowed William to lead her back into what was left of her house. There was nothing more
anyone could do until the light of morning.

‘Where is young Billy?’ he asked.

‘I – I don’t know. He’s been gone three days now. I can’t control him, William.’

William’s only answer was an understanding squeeze on her arm.

They spent the night back in Emma’s house beneath the kitchen table, a refuge, a haven that became, in those few short hours, a heaven. The night was a tumult of emotion,
her love for William spilling over and engulfing them both.

‘I can’t believe you’re here.’

‘No miracle, Em.’ His deep chuckle came out of the darkness. ‘I have been here before – several times.’

‘Oh, and I missed seeing you. Was I out? At work?’

She felt a small movement as he shifted uneasily. ‘No.’ In his voice there was a strange shyness. ‘No, I never came to the house. I just stood in the street and –
and—’

‘Oh. Oh, William,’ she breathed and laid her head against his chest, a tremor running through her as his arms came about her and his mouth brushed her forehead. She lifted her face
to his and amidst the carnage and the destruction, they were lost in their own blissful world, shutting out for a few moments her desperate grief for Mary, and anxiety for Billy.

‘I’ve always loved you, Emma. You must know that.’

‘No,’ she murmured. ‘No, I didn’t. I never even thought about it.’ The realization surprised her.

He gave a wry laugh. ‘No. You wouldn’t. You could think of no one but Jamie.’ There was silence between them, before he murmured sadly, ‘Jamie, always Jamie.’

She snuggled her head against him. ‘But why did you never say anything? Why didn’t you tell me?’

‘Now, how could I?’ he said reasonably.

She thought back over the years, remembering her life back at Marsh Thorpe when she had been so obsessed with Jamie Metcalfe that she had been blind to the love William had carried for her even
then. This man she lay with now was twice the man his brother had ever been, yet she had been so blind. And even when she had realized there was to be no future for her with Jamie, even then, she
had turned to a stranger, wooed by Leonard’s charm and carried along on the tide of her father’s approval, for the first time in her life, basking in his approbation. And look where
that had led her.

‘Oh, William,’ she breathed again, her voice full of sadness and regret.

Hearing it, he held her closer. She felt his arms tighten around her as if, amidst all the devastation and the sadness the morning might bring, having found her again, he would never, ever let
her go.

Now in the cruel light of day, as they stood in silence, watching Mary Porter carried from the wreckage, Emma realized how close she too had come to death. She clung to
William’s arm, her dark eyes wide with fear, scanning the devastated street. Half the houses on her side of the street had been damaged, three beyond any repair. They would need complete
rebuilding. Six others were so badly damaged that for the moment they were uninhabitable until some repairs could be carried out.

They heard the pounding of hobnailed boots on the pavement and turned to see Billy flying down the slope of the street, his jacket open, his eyes wild, his mouth gaping. ‘Me mam! Oh, me
mam! Where’s me mam?’

She made an involuntary movement towards her son, but felt William hold her back and heard his whispered, ‘Wait, Em. Watch.’

Billy had not seen them standing quietly on the other side of the street. Now he was thrusting aside the restraining arms of the air raid warden, pushing his way through the little knot of men
who were digging amongst the debris for survivors or bodies. Billy saw the door the two men were carrying as a makeshift stretcher, saw the covered form lying on it.

‘No,’ he yelled. ‘No, oh no . . .’

He caught hold of the rough blanket covering the body and ripped it away, staring down wide-eyed and fearful at Mary’s body. For a moment he was motionless as the realization that it was
not his mother dawned, then he turned away scrambling over the rubble, clawing frantically at the bricks and stones with his bare hands.

Now Emma broke free from William’s arms and stepped forward.

‘Billy, Billy love. I’m here.’ Slowly he straightened up and turned round to stare at her. She saw his white face, his dark eyes wide with terror. ‘I’m all right,
Billy,’ she said gently.

He stumbled down the pile of bricks and began to run towards her, opening his arms wide as if to scoop her into them. ‘Oh, Mam . . .’ she heard the break in his voice and, as he
reached her, she saw the tears brimming in his eyes. ‘I thought you were dead.’

He flung himself against her, for a moment no longer the swaggering, rebellious youth despising any emotion as weakness. For those few anguish-filled moments he was her little boy again, her
Billy.

‘It’s all right, love. It’s all right.’ She rocked him in her arms, holding him tightly against her. Above his head she met William’s steady gaze.
‘Everything’s going to be all right. We’re going home, Billy, we’re going home.’

‘What are you going to do, Alf?’

With her own immediate future decided, Emma was concerned for the big man whose whole world had been devastated. They were walking out of the gates of the cemetery after Mary’s funeral. On
her other side, with his hand on her elbow, supporting her, loving her, walked William.

‘Have you somewhere to go, because . . .?’ Emma said gently.

‘S’all right,’ the big man said, a slight tremble in his deep voice. ‘Me eldest lad says I’m to go to theirs.’ He jerked his head over his shoulder towards
the family mourners following them. ‘For a while anyway. I can get a job there, an’ all, he reckons.’

Emma nodded. She was relieved. Alf would be with his family. She hadn’t wanted to leave without knowing that he had somewhere to go, somewhere to live, yet she was anxious to be gone. She
couldn’t wait to go home.

‘Have you heard from Joey?’

The big man shook his head. ‘No, but I’ve sent word.’

They walked in silence until, at the top of their street, they stopped and faced each other.

Alf seemed to be struggling to find the words. ‘She liked you, Emma. My Mary thought a lot of you. I hope everything – ’ he glanced briefly towards William, ‘works out
for you. Mary would have been pleased.’

Her voice husky with emotion, Emma said. ‘Thank you, Alf.’ For a moment, they clasped hands and then, with the awkwardness of knowing they were parting, probably never to meet again,
they hugged each other. ‘Goodbye, Alf. And thank you – for everything,’ she whispered and then turned away, tears blurring her vision. She tucked her hand through William’s
arm and he led her down the street towards his truck, already loaded with all her possessions, standing outside the wreckage of the terraced houses.

‘Billy,’ she called, spotting him at the bottom of the street, kicking a ball against a wall. ‘Come on, we’re going.’

Billy’s caring attitude had not lasted long. He had very soon reverted to form and now he picked up the ball and came slowly up the street towards them, reluctance in every step.

‘Why do we have to leave? Old man Rabinski said you could have another house as soon as one comes vacant,’ he grumbled as he climbed into the front of the truck to sit between them.
With every mile that took him away from the city where he roamed the streets freely, his indignation grew. ‘I don’t want to live in a bloody village.’

Emma’s, ‘Watch your language, m’lad,’ was accompanied by a sharp slap and it was all William could do to hide his laughter and keep the truck straight on the road.

‘I’ll run away again,’ was all Billy muttered morosely and fell silent between them.

But Emma, sitting on the far side of him, had a contented, placid smile on her face. She was on her way home. The few belongings they had been able to salvage from the devastation of her home
were packed in the back of William’s vehicle and on her knee, wrapped in a soft cloth, she held the silver christening mug. There was only the tiniest dint in the rim, caused the night the
house had been bombed, that would tell generations to come – Charles’ children and grandchildren – of its chequered history.

As the truck rattled and bumped over the miles, Emma felt excitement mounting within her. Rounding the final corner that took them down the gently sloping hill within sight of the mill, she
found she was holding her breath.

Except for her brief return to Luke’s funeral, just over fifteen years had passed since she had lived here, and yet when the black shape of the mill, still standing forlornly without its
proud sails, came into view, it was as if all the intervening years fell away. She was back home, back where she truly belonged. Above Billy’s head she felt William’s glance upon her
face as he turned the vehicle into the gate and came to a halt in the yard of Forrest’s Mill.

She climbed down and stood in the middle of the yard staring up at the mill above her. Silently she said, ‘Oh, Grandpa Charlie, I deserted you, but I’m back now and I’ll never
leave you again.’