A Woman of Substance (60 page)

Her brothers were gaping at her incredulously. Frank cringed and drew away from her. Winston said, ‘But Emma, anybody would have done the same thing—’

‘Would they really!’ she stormed, leaping out of the chair. She stood in the centre of the kitchen, her volcanic rage a stupendous force in her slender body. ‘Would
Squire
Fairley? Or
Master
Gerald? Or
Master
Edwin?’ Again she spat out the names and with a complete and virulent loathing. ‘Would they have risked their lives to save our father’s? Never. Never, I tell you. Not in a million years. Oh God! I can’t stand it,’ she screamed, and her whole body vibrated with her fulminating fury.

‘Calm down. Calm down, Emma. You’ll make yourself sick. It happened, and nothing will change that,’ Winston said, shaken at her violent reaction, and afraid for her.

‘The Squire has been ever so decent,’ interposed Frank, also trying to mollify her. ‘He pays us me dad’s wages. A
pound a week, we get. And he’s going to pay it until I’m fifteen—’

‘That’s mighty big of him!’ snarled Emma, her eyes threatening and ugly. ‘That’s forty-eight pounds a year.’ She laughed caustically. ‘He’s paid it for the past ten months, I suppose. And he’ll pay it for another two years. Very decent of him indeed!’ Her tone dripped acid. ‘Is that all my father’s life was worth to the Fairleys? Approximately one hundred and fifty pounds, give or take a few shillings. It’s a joke. A disgusting joke!’ She caught her breath, her chest heaving. ‘
Is that all he was worth?
’ she demanded once more.

Winston cleared his throat and said in his gentlest voice, ‘Well, he does a bit more than that. The Squire, I mean. He moved Frank into the mill offices and he’s being trained as a clerk. And every Sunday Aunt Lily goes up to the Hall and Cook gives her a basket of food. Enough for the whole week. For her and Frank. You see, Aunt Lily moved in here, Emma, to look after Frank. She gave up her cottage when Dad died. She’s gone up to the Hall now, Emma, to get the food. It helps a lot.’

‘A basket of food,’ she repeated scathingly, and laughed nastily. ‘Well, well, well. The Squire is being generous.’ She swung her head sharply and glowered at Frank. ‘I’m surprised you don’t choke on it, our Frank. I know I would!’

She turned on her heels and walked across the room, her head held high. Frank and Winston gazed at her stiff back and they exchanged worried glances. She put on her coat and took the flowers from the sink. She paused in the doorway and looked around. ‘I’m going to the cemetery,’ she said, her voice steely. ‘And then I shall go up to the Top of the World. I doubt there’s any heather there at this time of year, but I shall look. Anyway, I want to be by myself for a bit. I’ll be back later, and we can talk some more. Make some plans for Frank’s future. I’d like to see Aunty Lily as well.’

‘I’ll come with you,’ said Winston. ‘We’ll both come, won’t we, Frank?’ The younger boy nodded his acquiescence.

‘No!’ exclaimed Emma. ‘I told you I want to be alone. To think for a while.’

She closed the door softly behind her, before they had a
chance to protest. She walked slowly up Top Fold, her feet dragging, a feeling of exhaustion swamping her. She headed for the small graveyard next to the church, aware of nothing except her overwhelming grief. Her face tightened and darkened, and there was a chilly light in her eyes as she looked ahead unwaveringly. And then her consummate hatred for the Fairleys, so close to the surface, rose up again and took hold of her, jostling against the grief for prominence in her mind. Was there no end to the pain that family would cause her? Was she to be cursed with them all the days of her life? Damn the Fairleys. All of them. Damn them! Damn them! Damn them! May they rot in hell!

And so it began: the most relentless pursuit of money ever embarked upon, the most grinding and merciless work schedule ever conceived and willingly undertaken by a seventeen-year-old girl.

By day, Emma worked at the mill; at night, after a hastily eaten light tea, she retreated to her bedroom at Laura’s and designed and cut and sewed clothes for a rapidly increasing clientele, local women informed by the devoted Laura of her flair with a needle, and her reasonable prices.

On Sundays, Emma baked fruit pies, bacon-and-egg pies, meat pies, and all manner of fancy pastries and cakes; she cooked mousses, jellies, custards, and trifles, using Olivia Wainright’s recipes, catering for parties and special occasions for the neighbours and, before long, the local gentry. When she was not engaged in her culinary endeavours for her growing number of customers, she bottled fresh fruits and vegetables; pickled onions, red cabbage, and walnuts; made chutneys and relishes and jams, which were painstakingly labelled and dated
in her meticulous script, supplies being hoarded in Laura’s cellar to be sold later in her shop. Emma scrupulously lived on the weekly wage she earned at the mill as a weaver, and every penny she made from her dressmaking and catering was poured back into ‘the business’, as she called it, to purchase the necessary sewing materials and foodstuffs.

This worried Laura, but Emma pointed out, ‘You’ve got to spend money to make money,’ and she refused to listen to warnings about ‘getting in over your head’. However, it was not long before Emma began to show a small profit, much to her satisfaction, and Laura’s great relief.

Emma was dogged, ruthless with herself, scraping, saving, and working seven days a week and seven nights as well. She had no time to lose now. Her first goal—the first shop. And after that, more shops until she had a chain of shops just as Michael Marks had a chain of Penny Bazaars. But hers would be elegant stores which would cater to the carriage trade. That was where the real money was, where great quantities of money could be made by an astute retailer. To get that first shop Emma herself needed money. Money for the rent. Money for the fixtures and fittings and display stands. Money to purchase the stocks. Somehow she had to get that money and she determined that nothing and nobody would stop her. Emma had no doubts about her ultimate success. ‘Failure’ and ‘defeat’ were words now entirely erased from her vocabulary, for her belief in herself was absolute, and she knew, also, that she had one essential and most vital characteristic—an enormous capacity for work.

For a whole year, after she had learned of her father’s death, Emma took no time off whatsoever, except to visit Edwina one day every month. She regretted she did not have time to go to Ripon more often, as she had promised Freda, but she assuaged her terrible feelings of guilt and worry by reminding herself she was working for Edwina’s future.

Emma made only one trip to Fairley to see Frank during this time, and that was when Winston was home on leave again. They had decided, she and her elder brother, on that devastating April Sunday, that Frank should remain in Fairley with their Aunt Lily. It seemed to them both to be the best
solution. He would continue to work in the mill offices until he was fifteen. At that time, they agreed, Frank could determine for himself whether or not he wished to pursue a writing career. If he did, Emma and Winston would somehow find a way for him to do this; perhaps working in Leeds, as a copy boy on one of the newspapers, learning the journalistic profession and attending night school; or perhaps they would have enough money between them to send him away to school.

‘Frank has been given a brain, Winston. A marvellous brain. And he has a talent for words. It’s a gift, really. It must not be wasted,’ Emma had proclaimed. ‘We must give him every chance, no matter what.’ Winston had nodded his concurrence. Emma had also made another decision that afternoon. She had informed Winston, and in no uncertain terms, that he must send Frank writing materials on a continuing basis. ‘Even if you have to forgo a few pints and cigarettes,’ she had ordered. She herself would undertake to supply Frank with a good dictionary and other books of her choice. He ought to be exposed to literature, such as the plays of Shakespeare, the novels of Dickens, Trollope, and Thackeray, philosophical works and histories. Victor Kallinski knew all about books and he would help her to select the most appropriate ones. Frank had been given his orders, too. He must study diligently, reading every night and in all of his free time, in order to further his education on his own. Aunt Lily was instructed to enforce this programme.

‘There will be no shirking, Frank, since Winston and I are making a special effort for you,’ Emma had warned in her sternest tone. Frank had been only too delighted to accept her offer, and he was not at all appalled by the rigid timetable she had worked out for him. He could not wait for the first books to arrive and he knew, too, that he would not change his mind about writing.

Emma had told Winston, Frank, and her Aunt Lily, only partial truths when she had given them her address in Armley. She had explained that she called herself
Mrs
Harte, and had invented a husband in the navy, simply as protection against unwanted and bothersome young men who might otherwise come courting. Winston had smiled at this ruse. He had
actually congratulated her on her sense of self-preservation and told her she was being practical. Emma did not breathe a word about Edwina.

With Winston’s career in the navy progressing, Frank’s future temporarily settled, and Edwina safe in Ripon, Emma felt she was free to embark on her Plan with a capital P and devote herself solely to her own ambitions. She was unflagging and intensely involved in her work schedule, one that would have felled anyone else. She was oblivious to the passing of the days, her surroundings, and anything else that would intrude on the average girl’s thoughts.

Sometimes Emma was even oblivious to her friends. At first, Blackie had believed Emma would not be able to sustain the exhausting grind, and so he had quietly cautioned Laura not to interfere. But as the months dragged on and Emma persisted in her endless toil, they both became concerned. In particular, David Kallinski was worried to such an extent that one night he sought out Blackie at the Mucky Duck.

David had been tense, and without preamble had launched into the reason for his visit. ‘Emma won’t listen to me, Blackie. When I last spoke to her I suggested she should be a little kinder to herself, that she should only work during the week, like everyone else with any sense, and take the weekends off. I said something about doing everything in moderation, and do you know what she replied?’

Blackie had shaken his head, his own worry a reflection of David’s. ‘I’ve no idea, lad. She comes out with all sorts of strange remarks these days.’

‘She said to me, “In my opinion, moderation is a vastly overrated virtue, particularly when applied to work, David.” Can you believe it?’

‘Aye, I can. She’s stubborn, Emma is, David. And what ye be telling me doesn’t surprise me. I’ve tried talking to her meself lately, without success. She just won’t pay no mind to anybody,’ Blackie had grumbled.

‘Try talking to her again, Blackie.
Please
,’ David had implored. ‘Get her to take this Sunday off. I’ll come up to Armley, and we’ll go for a walk in the park, and listen to the band. Blackie, promise me you’ll at least
try.
’

‘By God, I’m going to do it, David! I shall be real forceful with her. I shall tell her now she is worrying us all. That ought to do the trick, I bet. I’m going to bring Emma to the park with Laura and me, even if I have to drag her there by the scruff of her neck!’

Now on the designated Sunday, a brilliantly sunny July afternoon, David Kallinski walked along Stanningley Road to the entrance of Armley Park. He was dressed in his best suit and a sparkling white shirt, set off by a deep wine-coloured cravat neatly knotted above his waistcoat, and fastened with an imitation-pearl pin. With his carefully pressed clothes, and his black boots shined to perfection, he had a well-groomed immaculate look about him. His thick black hair gleamed like jet and his handsome face, freshly barbered and smelling faintly of bay rum, was vibrant with pleasure at the thought of seeing Emma.

He entered the park through handsome iron gates, surmounted by the city’s coat of arms, and strolled down the principal approach, a wide carriageway leading to a large classically designed fountain. He stood at ease, his hands in his pockets, watching the soaring jets of water being discharged high into the air and cascading back down into the fountain, scintillating like hundreds of strings of tiny diamonds as they caught and held the sunlight. Fascinated by the intricately constructed fountain, he moved closer and read the inscription.

Erected by William Gott of Armley House In Commemoration of the Sixtieth Year of the Reign of Her Majesty Queen Victoria 1837 to 1897

The Gott family were immensely wealthy millowners and had endowed many statues to the city of Leeds. When he could afford it, David decided, he would make philanthropic donations that would help people, rather than building statues and fountains, which, however beautiful, were essentially useless.

He turned away and traversed the exquisitely landscaped gardens, laid out in Italian style and flanked by pathways
avenued by young limes and elms and poplars, all offering shade on this scorching day. The gardens blazed with glorious colour. Stylized flower beds were awash with the abundant reds and pinks of the gay geranium, the deep purples and sharp yellows of the velvet-petalled pansy, the whites and pinks and mauves of the tall and graceful foxglove. Variegated greens, lushly inviting, sloped away into the distance and were highlighted with patches of pink and white thrifts, and the cheerful little nasturtium leapt like fire alongside the cool blues of the iris. Skirting the gardens were all manner of shrubs and trees, for Armley Park contained more specimens than any other park in Leeds; various hollies moved darkly polished branches towards the softer weigela with its applelike blossoms, while copper beeches, their leaves trembling with a burnished radiance in the warm breeze, towered majestically above mock orange blossom trees, festooned and dripping with the palest of blush pinks. Rockeried paths and open spaces of grass, as smooth as emerald satin, were enclosed by additional shrubs and trees, and richly planted borders of the vivid zinnia ranged down the flagged and gravelled walks.

Along these pathways moved starchly uniformed nannies pushing perambulators; courting couples; prettily gowned ladies accompanied by stiffly tailored husbands. David mingled amongst them, thinking how idyllic the scene was on this splendid day. He was glad to be alive with his future ahead of him and so many things to see and do, so much to achieve. Success beckoned and he was as positive as Emma that his own business enterprises would prosper.

And why not? This was the year of 1907, when King Edward’s reign was at its zenith and his popularity with his people unchallenged; a year when society flirted and danced and hunted and sailed and laughed away the days under King Bertie’s outgoing and benevolent rule; a year when the aristocracy made pleasure the god and gave no thought to the grim realities of life, or of war, for the Africa debacle was forgotten and peace in Europe was assured. In short, 1907 was a year when the ruling classes lived their carefree lives to the full, not considering the stony-faced world beyond the shores of their glorious and invincible England. And every Englishman,
David Kallinski included, was lulled into a sense of false security by their debonair example. The years ahead were full of promise. Change was ripe in the air. Things could only get better. The future, for all, was bright with hope.

Consequently, David’s step was lively as he headed for the bandstand. This pagoda-like structure, a dubious tribute to England’s far-flung empire, added a touch of the exotic and the oriental to this typical English park, appeared oddly incongruous in that peaceful and gentle setting. Particularly so this afternoon, since it housed the visiting military band of the Grenadier Guards, bedazzling in their magnificent uniforms and shining from head to toe with the proverbial ‘spit and polish’ of the British army, and curiously out of place in that somewhat outlandish and whimsical replica of a mandarin’s teahouse.

He scanned the seats in front of the bandstand and, seeing no sight of his friends, settled himself in one of the small wroughtiron chairs. The band finished warming up and, after a few flourishes, they commenced their programme with the national anthem. As the concert continued thoughts of Emma drifted into David’s head and took complete hold of him. She was rarely out of his mind these days, and he realized his interest in her was not solely as a business associate, but as a woman. The tender but also passionate feelings he now harboured for her had crept up on him so stealthily he had been taken by surprise. And how did she feel about him? he wondered. Anything at all, other than affection and friendship? Was she too preoccupied with her work to give him a solitary thought? And she was married, a circumstance he had to face. The prospects were bleak for any man who had the bad luck to fall in love with a married woman. But love her he did. Where is that damned husband of hers? David asked himself. The missing husband had not appeared on the scene at all, not even when the baby was born. Sailors came home on leave, didn’t they? It was a mystery, but David had not, as yet, ventured to ask Emma about her husband, or whether she still loved him. David suspected that she did not. Emma never mentioned him, nor did she appear to miss him. David sighed. He had to admit that his hands were tied. He could not, in all conscience, proclaim him
self to her, in view of her marital status.

David, lost in his reverie, was startled by Blackie’s voice at his shoulder. ‘There ye are, me boyo!’ David looked up quickly and was disappointed to see that only Laura Spencer accompanied Blackie. David stood and took Blackie’s outstretched hand. He bent down and kissed Laura affectionately on the cheek, and flashed her a gay smile that belied his real feelings. However, he was unable to keep the dejection out of his voice when he asked, ‘What happened to Emma? Where is she?’