A Woman of Substance (34 page)

Blackie gave Emma a knowing look. ‘Anyway, mavourneen, the Squire was grateful, as I said, and impressed with me Uncle Pat’s bravery and he wanted to reward him—’ Blackie shook his head and went on scoffingly, ‘Me Uncle Pat, well,
he
wouldn’t be taking the money. “Only a heathen takes money for the saving of a man’s life,” so says me Uncle Pat to the Squire. So, the Squire, out of his eternal gratitude, gives us the work and recommends us,’ Blackie finished triumphantly, nodding his head. ‘And glad we are to be getting it, mavourneen.’

‘Yer Uncle Pat
must
be very brave,’ said Emma. She pondered for a moment and then her mouth compressed into a thin line. ‘Well, I hope yer charge the Squire plenty, and
them
that he recommends,’ she commented with acerbity.

‘Why, Emma Harte! What a thing to be saying,’ cried Blackie, feigning horror. He concealed his amusement and exclaimed, ‘I can see ye are growing up to be a real hardheaded Yorkshire lass.’

‘The tea’s ready,’ announced Cook, interrupting their conversation. ‘Emma, get out the best cups and saucers, and put the best lace cloth on the table, being as it’s Sunday and we’ve got company.’ Cook waddled over with the tea tray. ‘What can I do to be helping ye, Mrs Turner?’ asked Blackie, standing up.

‘Nowt, lad. Sit yerself down. We’ll have it all ready in two ticks.’ She bustled away, returning a few seconds later with another tea tray laden with plates of thick ham sandwiches, slices of delicious veal-and-ham pie, hot sausage rolls, small dishes of pickled onions, beetroot, and piccalilli, warm buttered scones, blackberry jam, and a giant-sized caraway-seed cake.

‘I swear I’ve never set eyes on a tea party like this, Mrs Turner. Faith and that’s the truth,’ said Blackie. ‘Ye have outdone yeself, Mrs Turner, me darlin’. Sure and it’s the finest spread I’ve ever seen.’

‘Sounds ter me as if yer kissed the Blarney stone afore yer left Ireland,’ said Cook, but her eyes were laughing and full of fun. She glanced at Blackie warmly and slapped him on the shoulder. ‘Aay, get on with yer, lad. There’s nowt ter be gained from flattering an old body like me.’

At this moment, Annie, the betweenmaid, came down the steps from the upstairs quarters. Tall and robust, with a creamy pink-and-white complexion, flaxen hair, and pale blue
eyes, Annie looked for all the world like the typical buxom milkmaid and her manner was also decidedly bovine. Emma, putting out the cups and saucers, looked up. ‘Did yer finish upstairs, Annie? Is everything all right, luv?’ Annie nodded slowly, but her usually placid expression had disappeared, which Emma noticed instantly. ‘Come ter the sink and wash yer hands then, luv, and we’ll be having our teas,’ Emma went on hurriedly, manoeuvring Annie across the kitchen, and out of Cook’s earshot. ‘Did yer break summat, luv?’ asked Emma.

‘No, Emma. I was ever so careful, like yer told me ter be,’ said Annie.

‘Well, what’s wrong, then? Yer look worried to death. I can see yer not yerself.’

‘It’s Mrs Fairley,’ Annie whispered conspiratorially. ‘She fair give me a right turn, she did that, Emma.’

‘What happened?’ Emma turned on the tap and made a show of washing her hands to drown out their voices.

‘I went up ter see the missis, like yer told me ter, after I’d finished setting the table. But when I knocked on her door she didn’t answer. Anyroads, I went in ter the sitting room, and there she was, sitting in the dark, talking a mile a minute—’

‘So what’s wrong with that?’ interrupted Emma impatiently.

‘Yer don’t understand, Emma! There was nobody there with her. She was talking ter the empty chair,’ whispered Annie, her eyes like saucers.

‘Nay, Annie luv. That can’t be so. Maybe Mrs Wainright was there. Perhaps she was somewhere in the room and yer didn’t notice,’ countered Emma with a deep frown, although she guessed, as she spoke, that this was probably not the case.

‘Mrs Wainright’s not back from Kirkend,’ murmured Annie. ‘Anyroads, when Mrs Fairley sees me, she stops talking ter the chair. I asked her if she wanted her tea, ever so polite like, as yer told me ter be. She said she didn’t, but ter tell yer she’ll have her dinner in her room later,’ said Annie. She began to breathe a little more easily, now that she was safely back in the kitchen.

‘I’d best go up ter see her,’ said Emma worriedly.

‘No, yer don’t have ter, Emma. The missis told me she was
tired, so I helped her ter bed. She laid herself down and was off in a few minutes—’ Annie stopped and took hold of Emma’s arm. ‘Emma—’ she began hesitatingly, and paused again.

‘Yes, luv, what is it now?’ asked Emma.

‘Mrs Fairley smelled ever so funny. She smelled of
whisky.
Least I think it was,’ confided Annie.

Emma’s eyes narrowed, but she adopted a sceptical tone. ‘Oh, Annie, yer must be imagining things.’

‘No, I’m
not.
Honest, Emma!’

Emma glared at Annie. ‘First of all, how do yer knows what whisky smells like, Annie Stead? All yer dad sups is beer.’ She gave Annie a penetrating look, and added protectively, ‘Mrs Fairley has a special medicine that she takes. That’s what yer smelled, Annie Stead.’

‘If yer say so,’ said Annie, for she was in awe of Emma, and also afraid of her. Nonetheless, she found the courage to add, ‘Still, the missis
was
talking ter herself. Make no mistake about that!’

Emma, who felt compelled to defend Adele Fairley, thought quickly, and said with a small, knowing smile, ‘Come ter think of it, Mrs Fairley often reads aloud ter herself. That’s probably what she was doing when yer went in ter see her. Yer just didn’t notice the book, that’s all.’ She gave Annie such a threatening look the girl blanched and shrank away. ‘But if yer that concerned, I’ll go up and see her right now,’ remarked Emma coolly.

Annie shook her head. ‘No! No! Leave her be, Emma. She was fast asleep when I left her a few minutes ago.’

‘Now, there, lasses! What’s all this ’ere whispering by the sink. Yer knows I don’t like that sort of thing,’ cried Mrs Turner crossly. She clapped her hands. ‘Emma! Annie! Come ’ere at once and get yer teas. I won’t have that there whispering!’

‘Don’t say owt ter Cook,’ Emma cautioned. She turned off the tap, dried her hands, and attempted to look unconcerned. So Annie has smelled the drink, too, Emma thought with dismay. But, as she sat down at the table, she acknowledged to herself that there was no point in going upstairs, if Mrs Fairley was sleeping. That’s the best thing for her right now,
Emma decided, with her usual common sense.

Under Blackie’s ebullient influence Emma soon cheered up. He was a marvellous raconteur and he kept them laughing during tea with his amusing stories and teasings. Emma found she was able to put Adele Fairley out of her mind completely, and she began to enjoy herself as much as the others. She laughed a great deal, much to Blackie’s satisfaction. In his opinion, Emma was always too serious by far, so that he derived great pleasure from her gaiety.

The atmosphere was frivolous, and the kitchen rang with Blackie’s boisterous laughter, the girls’ high-pitched giggles and squeals of delight, and Cook’s occasional reprimands ‘ter keep the noise down’, uttered goodnaturedly enough through her own pealing laughter.

When they had finished eating, Emma said, ‘Sing us a song, Blackie. Will yer, please?’

‘Sure and I will, mavourneen. And what will ye pleasure be?’

‘Would yer sing “Danny Boy”, Blackie? Mrs Turner likes t—’ Emma broke off and looked at the kitchen door, which had burst open wildly and was swinging on its hinges in the wind. She was flabbergasted to see her brother Frank standing on the threshold. He banged the door shut furiously, and hurtled down the stone steps, his boots clattering loudly, his small face white and cold, his thin body shivering in his threadbare jacket.

‘Good gracious me! What’s all this, then?’ cried Mrs Turner, looking perturbed.

Emma jumped up and flew across the room. ‘Frank lad, what’s wrong?’ she asked, pulling him to her protectively. Frank was gasping for breath, his eyes were wide with fright, and the freckles stood out on his drawn face. Emma led him to the fire gently, clucking to him in her motherly way and patting his shoulder soothingly. The boy’s breathing was laboured, for he had run all the way from the village, and, as yet, he was unable to speak. Finally he managed to gasp, ‘Me dad says yer’ve got ter come right sharpish, our Emma. Now!’

‘Whatever’s the matter?’ said Emma, staring into his face
with alarm, her mind racing. Frank’s eyes filled with tears and before he spoke Emma knew instinctively exactly what he was going to say. She held her breath and prayed to God she was wrong.

‘It’s our mam, Emma. Me dad says ter tell yer she’s right badly. And Dr Mac’s there. Come on!’ he yelled, frantically tugging at her arm.

Emma’s face went chalk white and fear darkened her eyes, so that they took on the colour of malachite. She pulled off her apron, ran to the kitchen cupboard, and grabbed her coat and scarf without uttering a word. Blackie and Mrs Turner exchanged worried glances. Mrs Turner said, ‘Now, lass, I’m sure it’s nowt serious. Don’t be fretting yerself. Yer knows yer mam has been a lot better lately.’ Her tone was reassuring, but her plump face was the picture of concern.

Blackie had risen and solicitously helped Emma into her coat. He squeezed her arm and said consolingly, ‘Mrs Turner’s right. To be sure she is, Emma. Don’t be afeared now. Ye mam’s in good hands with the doctor.’ He paused and looked into her stricken face. ‘Would ye like me to come with ye?’

Emma looked up at him and shook her head. ‘But if Dr Mac’s with her it must be summat serious.’ Emma’s voice quavered and her eyes brimmed with tears.

‘Now, don’t be jumping to the conclusions,’ Blackie said with great gentleness, endeavouring to calm her fears. ‘Ye mam will be fine, mavourneen. Sure and she will.’ Emma looked up at him sorrowfully and she did not answer. Blackie put his strong arms around her and hugged her to him. After a few seconds he released her and touched her face tenderly. ‘Ye must have faith,’ he whispered softly, gazing into her eyes.

‘Yes, Blackie,’ she whispered, tying on her scarf. Then she grabbed Frank’s hand and hurried him across the room. ‘I don’t think I’ll get back in time ter help yer with dinner, Mrs Turner,’ she called, running up the steps. ‘But I’ll try. Ta’rar.’ The door slammed behind Emma and Frank.

Mrs Turner sat down heavily in the chair. ‘It seemed too good ter be true. The way her mam improved in the last few weeks. The calm before the storm, if yer asks me,’ she muttered dourly. ‘Poor bairn, and she was having such a good
time for once.’

‘Let’s not look on the black side, Mrs Turner. Her mam might be having a small attack, that’s all. It could be a false alarm,’ said Blackie with a show of cheeriness, but his heart was heavy and a melancholy look clouded his black eyes.

Once they were outside, Emma did not attempt to question Frank at all. She knew, deep in the marrow of her bones, that it was imperative for her to get home as quickly as possible, without wasting a minute of precious time. Her father would not have sent for her unless her mother had taken a turn for the worse. In spite of the confident reassurances Blackie and Mrs Turner had given her, Emma was quite positive of this, and she trembled as her alarm fired into cold terror.

Hand in hand, Emma and Frank ran across the stable yard, down the path by the copse of great oaks, and through the Baptist Field. Together, they struggled up the small slope rising to the plateau of moorland and the wide track that led to the village. By this time, Frank was fighting for breath and he found it difficult to keep up with Emma’s increasing pace. She gripped his hand tighter and pulled him along after her relentlessly, ignoring his protestations and little gurgling cries.

He tripped and fell, but Emma did not stop, nor did she pay any attention to him. With an almost superhuman strength she dragged him along in her wake, his little body trailing limply in the dirt behind her. His wailing cries and ear-piercing screams finally registered, and pulled her up short.

‘Frank! For heaven’s sake,’ she yelled wildly, staring down at him furiously. ‘Get up, lad! This minute!’ She attempted to pull him to his feet, but Frank lay inertly on the path.

‘I can’t keep up with yer, our Emma.’

Emma, who was not a naturally cruel person, was now disturbed almost to the point of hysteria. Her only thought was to get home to her mother, who needed her. ‘Then yer’ll have ter follow me,’ she shouted with coldness.

Emma set off along the rough moorland track, her iron will
pushing her forward with a preternatural energy. She gathered speed as she ran, her skirts flying out behind her in the wind. And one thought filled her mind as she ran: Don’t let me mam die. It was a prayer really, and she repeated it over and over again.
Please
,
God
,
don’t let me mam die.

When she reached Ramsden Ghyll, Emma stopped and looked back. She could see Frank following on behind. But she could not wait for him, and she plunged down into the Ghyll without slowing her pace. At one moment she stumbled and almost fell, but she recovered herself quickly, and flew on. It was dark in the Ghyll, where the overhanging rocks cast giant shadows and excluded all light, but Emma did not notice the eeriness or the gloom. She was soon scrambling up the path on the other side of the Ghyll, and out into the bright sunlight. She was panting excessively and her breathing was impaired. Yet she did not stop. She hurtled forward along the top path, stones and bits of dirt flying out behind her, until, sobbing and breathless, she staggered up to Ramsden Crags. She rested against a rock, trying to regain her breath. The sound of pounding horse’s hooves thundering along the path suddenly broke the silence. Emma looked back, startled. She was surprised to see Blackie galloping towards her on one of the Squire’s horses. He held Frank in front of him.

Blackie brought the horse to a standstill and Emma recognized Russet Dawn, Master Edwin’s chestnut. Blackie leaned down and gave her his large hand. He stuck out his foot and said, ‘Jump up, Emma. Use me foot to mount.’ Emma did as he instructed and pulled herself up on to the horse behind him. ‘Hang on,’ he cried as they set off again at a brisk canter. Soon they were in sight of the church spire and within minutes they were pulling up at Top Fold.