A Woman of Substance by Barbara Taylor Bradford
‘Yes, I’d love to come with you. Thank you. Blackie—I—’ Emma hesitated and then confessed almost shyly, ‘I’m glad you’re back in Leeds. I feel ever so much better knowing you’re around, knowing you’re my friend.’
Blackie’s long Irish upper lip drew back in a warm smile and his white teeth gleamed. ‘Aye, I am ye friend, Emma,’ he asserted. ‘And I’m glad ye confided in me. Now that I be knowing what ye are facing in the next few months I can do a bit of planning, make sure to be around when ye need me. But we won’t be talking about ye problems any more tonight. Sure, and we’ll face things one by one, as they come along. Now we are going out on the town! I aim to be showing ye off, Emma, me darlin’.’
Emma smiled up at him, her face animated. Thankfully her problems were miraculously retreating now that she was with Blackie. She had felt safe with him from the very first day they had met on the moors and she knew instinctively he would always protect her.
Blackie followed her out of the Saloon Bar and into the main room, which was teeming with people. He could hardly help noticing the masculine heads swivelling to stare, the admiring glances thrown in her direction. He drew himself up to his full height and lifted his head higher. She’s a looker, all right, he thought. Why, there isn’t a man breathing that wouldn’t be proud and delighted to have her by his side. Sure and that’s the truth, Blackie decided.
Then Blackie O’Neill stopped dead in his tracks, staring fixedly at her straight back, her delicately tilted head. With a sudden flash of comprehension he perceived why her story had so bothered him earlier. This transformed Emma Harte, gliding ahead of him so gracefully, would never have become involved with one of the loutish boys from the village. Never. Such an idea was not only inconceivable but preposterous. Then who is the father of her child? he wondered, completely baffled. He realized it would be unwise to question her tonight. Pushing this new and disturbing thought out of his mind, Blackie arranged a pleasant smile on his face and caught up with Emma. He took her arm and shepherded her out into the street, chatting to her in his vivacious way, striving for a semblance of normality. But his eyes held a reflective light.
THIRTY
Blackie and Emma sat on the tram-car going to Armley. It was a bitter-cold Sunday afternoon early in January of 1906. Emma was huddled in the corner of her seat, her altogether beautiful profile turned to him in chilly silence.
Jesus, Mary, and Joseph! Blackie thought in exasperation. She’s so stubborn at times she’s positively rigid. He glanced at her out of the corner of his eye and turned away, further dismayed by the obdurate look on her face. He knew better than to utter one word. She had been obstinate in her refusal to take this trip from the first day he had mentioned it two weeks ago. It had taken all of his powers of persuasion and his smooth Irish tongue to get her to agree, and then her acquiescence had been grudging. Sometimes he did not understand Emma at all, and he had long realized that she was an extremely complex young woman with the most pertinacious will it had ever been his misfortune to encounter. On the other hand, he had to acknowledge that she was amazingly intelligent, even brilliant, and gifted in so many ways. And in most instances she was flexible and open to suggestions, thank the Almighty Lord.
Blackie peered at her again. Surprisingly, that stern expression did nothing to mar her beauty. In fact, it seemed to give her a curiously imperious air that was arresting. Today her hair was drawn back and plaited, the plaits forming loops that hung low on her neck, anchored by a large black taffeta bow in the nape. She wore the green-and-black tartan tam-o’-shanter and the matching scarf he had given her for Christmas; the tam-o’-shanter was perched at a jaunty angle, the long scarf wound around her neck and thrown casually over the shoulders of her black wool coat. Her hands, as always clinging tightly to the black reticule, were encased in bottle-green mittens knitted for her by the devoted Rosie. The dark green tones of the scarf and hat suited her admirably and brought out the greenness of her incredible eyes and the alabaster pallor of her flawless complexion. There was no doubt about it. Emma, in these last months of her pregnancy, looked extraordinarily healthy and well cared for, and as immaculately groomed as always.
The tram rumbled out of the city centre, heading for Whin-gate Junction in Armley, a picturesque village perched on a hill, about half an hour’s ride away. Blackie sat lost in contemplation, patiently waiting for Emma’s mood to change, praying that it would do so before they reached their destination. He would be glad when the baby was born and she could visit Fairley. Although she accepted her pregnancy philosophically and with little visible show of anxiety, Blackie knew she worried excessively about her father and Frank. She had even pressed him into service with the mailing of those allimportant le tters to her dad, badgering him to seek out any of his friends, who might be going to London. She was determined to keep up the pretence that she was travelling with her non-existent Mrs John Smith, which readily explained her absence from Bradford. As luck would have it, he had been able to oblige her in November and December, when some of his mates from the pub were going south to find work on London’s East End docks. They had willingly agreed to post Emma’s letters to her father, without asking any embarrassing questions. Blackie had commented to Emma, though. ‘Ye dad will be wondering why ye don’t give him an address, so he’s can write to ye,’ he had pointed out. ‘No, he won’t,’ Emma had asserted sharply. ‘In the November letter I told him I was going to Paris with my lady, and in the December letter I told him I was accompanying her to Italy. As long as he hears from me, that’s all that matters.’ Blackie eyed her, utterly astonished at the machinations of her mind. ‘It seems ye’ve thought of everything,’ he said dryly. To this remark she had not deigned to respond and the conversation had been terminated.
Blackie stole another look at her, moved closer, and put his arm around her shoulders, easing himself up to her on the seat. ‘I hope ye’ll consider moving to Armley,’ he said carefully, steeling himself for her strong reaction, which, surprisingly, was not forthcoming. She remained perfectly still, her face staring ahead.
Encouraged, Blackie went on, ‘Ye’ll be happier living with Laura Spencer. Sure and ye will, mavourneen. Now that her widowed mother is dead she is looking for a paying guest, someone to share the expense of the house with her. A nice house it is, too. Small, of course, but cosy and well set up. Her late father was a foreman at the printing works, and her mother was a weaver. They had a bit of money and a decent going-on. It shows in the house, the furnishings and all, and Laura keeps it beautifully.’ He paused and searched her face, proceeding in a cheery tone, ‘Ye’ll be real comfortable there. And as I told ye afore, Laura can get ye a job at Thompson’s mill in Armley, where she works. I don’t know why ye are being so stubborn about it, Emma.’
She swung her head unexpectedly and looked at him intensely, her green eyes flashing. ‘Because I don’t like being uprooted! I’ve just learned the tailoring trade and now you want me to leave Kallinski’s and start working at the mill, learning to weave. It doesn’t make sense, Blackie. And besides, I like it at Mrs Daniel’s. She is very kindly these days and I do have the use of her kitchen.’
Blackie groaned. ‘But, Emma, ye’ll be having a whole house to share with Laura. Not only that, she lives just ten minutes away from Thompson’s mill. At present ye spend three quarters of an hour walking to Kallinski’s in the morning and the same amount of time to be getting home at night. It’s a lot of walking in this raw weather. Even the Kallinskis see the sense of what I be suggesting, and David told me the other day that they will be happy to take ye back, after the bairn is born. So what do you have to lose? Nothing, I am thinking.’ He sighed wearily. ‘Ye are a wilful, headstrong girl, Emma, and all I am wanting is what’s best for ye.’
Emma recognized the practicality of what he was suggesting, but for once in her life she was indecisive. ‘I just don’t know—’
Blackie now saw that wavering and he grabbed the opportunity, saying in a positive tone, ‘
Emma flushed and glared at him. ‘Rude! I’m never rude to anyone! You know better than that. And I’m not stuck-up either, Blackie O’Neill.’
He realized his mistake too late and, hoping to rectify it, Blackie said in the suavest of voices, ‘I know ye don’t mean to be snooty, Emma, me darlin’. But sometimes—well, sometimes ye do give the impression of being—let’s say, a bit hoitytoity.’
‘I do?’ she said wonderingly, frowning and biting her lip. Emma was flabbergasted at this statement, for she truly did not know she could be formidable at times. Invariably her distant manner was engendered by her total preoccupation with her problems and her numerous plans, and nothing else. She remained silent, ruminating on what he had said, feeling mortified.
Sensing that she might be hurt, Blackie remarked gently, ‘Ye’ll be liking Laura. She’s a sweet girl, that she is indeed. And I know she will be liking ye, Emma. Sure and she will, mavourneen.’
‘I’m not so sure about that, in view of what you’ve just said,’ Emma countered.
Blackie laughed a little shamefacedly. ‘Now let’s be forgetting that. All ye have to be doing is exercise a bit of that remarkable charm ye be possessing in such abundance, and everything will be fine.’ He squeezed her hand again and went on, ‘Armley is a grand little spot and very safe. ‘Tis especially pretty in summer when the trees and flowers are blooming. There’s Armley Park where the brass band plays every Sunday and other pleasant lanes and thoroughfares where ye can be taking a stroll. Also, St Mary’s Hospital is nearby, and ye could be having the bairn there, when ye time comes. And there are plenty of shops, so ye won’t be having to venture into Leeds for owt. Why, ye have everything ye be needing in Armley.’
Emma looked at him alertly. ‘Shops,’ she said thoughtfully. ‘But I thought Armley was a tiny village. There can’t be that many shops, Blackie.’
‘Oh, aye, there are, mavourneen. Ye see, Armley is spread out, so to speak. It be quite large really. There are a lot of fine homes. Mansions, in fact, where the posh folk live. Millowners and the like. There are a number of good shops in Town Street catering to the Quality trade. I’ve seen ‘em, when I’ve been visiting Laura afore. Ye’ll have a chance to look at ‘em yeself, when we walk down the main street to get to Laura’s house.’
‘What sort of shops?’ Emma pressed, her eyes turned on him with fierce interest.
Aware that he had now captured her complete attention and observing the change in her attitude, Blackie spoke excitedly, hoping to sway her further. ‘Well, let me be thinking. There be grocers, butchers, and greengrocers, all on Town Street, along with a pork butcher’s shop, an off-licence, a fishmonger’s, Keene’s dairy, a chemist, and a newsagent. I’ve also noticed a draper’s, a haberdasher’s, a shoe store, and a fine ladies’ dress establishment as well, mavourneen. It is quite an active thoroughfare, almost as busy as Briggate, indeed it is. Why, I think there are shops selling practically everything, Emma.’
Emma had listened carefully and she was rapidly reversing her preconceived ideas about sharing Laura Spencer’s house. ‘Tell me more about the village,’ she said. ‘For instance, how big is it? How many people live there?’
‘Ah, Emma, me love, now ye have me. I must be confessing I don’t know its exact size, or how many people reside in Armley. But it must be a goodly number, I am thinking, for the shops do a brisk business. Then again, there are several churches and chapels and quite a few schools, so there must be plenty of folk in the vicinity. Yes, it is a thriving place, sure and it is. Laura told me there is a public library and Liberal, Conservative, and Workingmen’s clubs. Why, there is even a jail in Armley. Horrible dungeon of a place, it is, by the looks of it.’ Blackie winked at her. ‘There are lots of pubs, too. I meself know at least six personally.’
Emma laughed for the first time since they had set out. ‘You would know that.’
‘And what’s wrong with a young spalpeen liking a pint of bitter now and then and an occasional noggin of good Irish?’ Blackie asked jestingly, adopting an injured air. Then he tugged on her arm urgently. ‘Come on, mavourneen! Here we are, ye can be seeing Armley for yeself.’
The tram had stopped at the terminus halfway up the hill. Blackie jumped down agilely and helped Emma to alight. ‘Careful now, love. It’s pretty bad underfoot. I don’t want ye to be having a spill and upsetting Tinker Bell,’ he said, clasping her hands tightly in his.
‘Tinker Bell?’
‘Aye, Tinker Bell. That’s what I be calling the baby, to meself of course. Ye know, after Tinker Bell in Peter Pan. Don’t ye approve of me name for her?’
She laughed. ‘Yes, I do, Blackie. But how do you know it will be a girl?’
‘Because ye keep telling me it will be.’ Blackie tucked her arm through his, pushed his hands into the pockets of his new navy-blue overcoat, and said, ‘That’s the Towers up there, where the rich folk live.’ He inclined his head towards a splendid driveway lined with trees. ‘And Town Street is just ahead of us. Now watch ye step. It’s slippery today.’
‘Yes, I will, Blackie.’ She drew closer to him, shivering. The north wind gusting down the hill was laden with frost and biting. Emma looked up. The sky was a frozen canopy soaring above them, icily white, and the pale winter sun was hardly visible, a tiny silver coin thrown negligently up into the far corner of that vast and hollow firmament. It was oddly silent now that the tram had stopped, for there were no carriages out or people abroad on this bleak and cheerless Sunday.
‘There’s Charley Cake Park,’ Blackie informed her, his head swivelling to the triangular-shaped plot on the opposite side of the road. ‘It’ll be a nice little place for ye to sit in the summer with Tinker Bell watching the passersby.’
‘I won’t have any time to sit anywhere with any Tinker Bell,’ Emma retorted, although this was said in a mild tone. She looked up at him sceptically. ‘Charley Cake Park! What kind of name is that? I bet you made it up.’
‘Now, why is it ye always challenge everything I be saying? I shall have to call ye Doubting Emma if ye are not careful, me lass. Anyway, that’s the name, sure and it is. Laura told me that years ago a man called Charley hawked cakes there and that’s how it—’
‘Got its name,’ Emma finished for him, her eyes full of merriment. ‘I believe you, Blackie. Nobody could invent a name like that.’
He grinned, but said nothing, and they walked on in silence. Emma glanced about her with considerable interest. They were now passing a neat row of houses facing on to Town Street. It reminded her of a scene from a fairy tale. Immense pie-like wedges of powdery snow slid across the red rooftops and hung precariously at the edges, and dripping from the gutters were countless icicles, shimmering scintillas of spun sugar in that pellucid air. Magically, the snow and ice had turned the mundane little dwellings into quaint gingerbread houses. The fences and the gates and the bare black trees were also encrusted with frozen snowflakes that, to Emma, resembled the silvery decorations on top of a magnificent Christmas cake. Paraffin lamps and firelight glowed through the windows and eddying whiffs of smoke drifted out of the chimneys, but these were the only signs of life on Town Street. The houses looked snug and inviting, and Emma imagined a happy family in each one; parents lazily warming themselves in front of the lambent flames, rosy-cheeked children at their feet, eating apples and oranges and roasting chestnuts, all of them laughing and enjoying a peaceful afternoon together, surrounded by love. She thought with a terrible yearning of her father and Frank and she wished with fervency that she was sitting with them in front of the fire in the little cottage in Fairley.
‘Now, Emma, here are the first of the shops,’ Blackie announced, his voice booming out in the stillness. ‘They g
Emma followed the direction of his gaze, her eyes wide with excitement, her sadness pushed to one side. ‘Yes, you did,’ she conceded. They passed the fishmonger’s, the haberdasher’s, the chemist’s, and the grand ladies’ dress establishment, and Emma recognized that this was indeed a fine shopping area. She was enormously intrigued and an idea was germinating. It will be easier to get a shop here. Rents will be cheaper than in Leeds, she reasoned logically. Maybe I can open my first shop in Armley, after the baby comes. And it would be a start. She was so enthusiastic about this idea that by the time they reached the street where Laura Spencer lived she already had the shop and was envisioning its diverse merchandise. Blackie might call her Doubting Emma, but she certainly had no doubts about one thing—her ultimate success. Her first shop would be in Armley and she would assiduously court the carriage trade. That was where the money was. Blackie had said so himself.
They walked along the street of terraced houses, all of them neat and respectable with their green painted doors, shining windows, trim gardens, and black iron gates. Just before they reached Laura Spencer’s house a thought struck Emma. She stopped and grabbed Blackie’s arm. ‘What have you told Laura about me?’ she asked.
Blackie gazed down at her, a faintly surprised look on his face. ‘Why, exactly what ye told me to tell her,’ he responded quietly. ‘The same story ye told everybody, right down to the last detail, Mrs Harte, sailor’s wife, expectant mother, dear friend of Blackie O’Neill.’ Emma smiled with relief and nodded, and they went up the garden path together. She wondered what Laura was like, but in a sense that hardly mattered to her. The important thing was that she made a good impression on Laura.