Emma: There's No Turning Back

by Linda Mitchelmore

  ‘Oh, is it my birthday?’ Emma said, jokingly. ‘I was too busy to notice.’

  ‘You know full well it is. And ’ere I am with your birthday present – bought at no small expense from the market for one shilling and sixpence – and you’ve got a face longer than a damp candle.’

  Beattie Drew was laughing, but Emma could see the concern in her old friend’s eyes.

  ‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘Thank you.’ She took the proffered parcel, wrapped in paper that Emma remembered wrapping a present for Beattie in. Opened it. Two lawn handkerchiefs with lace edging. They’d cost far more than one shilling and sixpence and they hadn’t come from the market – they’d come from somewhere far grander, like Bobby’s or Rockhey’s in Torquay. ‘But you shouldn’t spend your money on me.’

  ‘Don’t you tell me what to do, lovie,’ Beattie said, waggling a finger at Emma, but smiling all the same. ‘You and Seth are good to me – and my Edward – so it’s only fair. Besides, who else is there to spoil you on your birthday, ’cepting your Seth?’

  No one. Emma hadn’t told Ruby it was her birthday because she didn’t want her spending what little she earned on a present, when already Emma had far more than Ruby did.

  ‘No one really,’ Emma said, unable to keep the sadness from her voice. She was too young to have not one single living relative – maybe that was why she had this urge that was eating her up, burning her almost the way a fever burns the skin, to have a baby of her own. Someone with her own blood, her own hair colour perhaps. The same opal-green eyes her papa had had maybe. And her mama’s gentleness.

  ‘That Mrs Phipps isn’t causin’ trouble, is she? Now ’er’s been turfed out of Jubilee Terrace and the cottage is sold.’

  ‘No,’ Emma said, preferring not to tell Beattie that Mrs Phipps had spat at her in the street, calling her a name that she doubted even a drunken fisherman would say. Mrs Phipps had yelled something about a gentlemen’s agreement not being worth the paper it was written on, which had made Emma laugh and she’d got spat at again for her pains.

  Or that Mrs Phipps’ daughter, Margaret, had slammed the door back in her face when Emma had been coming out of the pharmacy on Baker’s Hill behind her. Emma had a bruise on her forehead, fading now but still there, a sickly sulphurous yellow patch that she’d hidden by combing her hair forward, making a fringe of sorts instead of tying it back like she usually did.

  Seth had noticed, though, so she’d told him she’d tripped on a slip mat in the hall and bumped into a door frame.

  ‘Good. But just you tell old Beattie Drew if she does cause trouble because don’t I know a thing about ’er what she wants kept secret? I wouldn’t be beyond snitchin’ on Mrs Phipps, believe you me, if ever she causes trouble for you and your Seth.’

  Your Seth. There it was again, sweeter than honey on the tongue to Emma’s ears. Emma’s cheeks lifted in the beginnings of a smile, of their own volition almost, at Beattie’s use of the word.

  ‘I will,’ Emma said, knowing she never would. She and Seth would fight their own battles.

  ‘So, lovie, what’re you goin’ to do for your birthday?’

  ‘Well, seeing as I had a feeling you’d tell me to take the day off, I have. No cooking. No preparation either. Seth’s at the boatyard with Olly.’

  Seth had said at breakfast that as much as he wanted to, he just couldn’t take the day off to spend it with her. Olly’s ma was getting worse by the minute and Olly had had to engage a nurse to sit with her. All the same, he kept running back home to check on her, leaving Seth in charge. Seth had said – after giving her a beautiful marcasite-encrusted wristwatch Emma couldn’t imagine ever wearing because where could they go with a child to care for? – he’d be home just as soon as he could be, but …

  The ‘but’ had been left hanging in the air, which told Emma that Seth would more than likely be home at the same time as usual.

  ‘So, it’s just me and Fleur until this evening when Seth gets back,’ Emma finished.

  ‘Well, she could do a lot worse than have you as ’er mother,’ Beattie said. ‘You look after ’er somethin’ wonderful seeing as she ain’t your blood. But, no, I’ve said enough.’

  Beattie began polishing the back of a chair vigorously, the same chair she’d only polished five minutes before.

  ‘Said enough what?’ Emma said. She carried on searching in the chest of drawers in Fleur’s bedroom for a bonnet. There was a bit of a chill in the air first thing in the morning now September was coming to a close. She didn’t want Fleur catching cold.

  ‘Where are you takin’ ’er? That’s what else I was goin’ to say. Seeing as ’ow that’s outdoor things you’re rummagin’ about fer in that drawer.’

  ‘That wasn’t what you were going to say, was it?’

  ‘You know me!’ Beattie laughed. ‘No poker player! I was goin’ to say – and you’re not to take offence – but it seems you care for Fleur better than many a real mother does what with the food she gets and the good clothes and the lovin’ and all, but what about ’er soul?’

  ‘Her soul?’

  ‘Soul. Most of us ’ave got one, though I got doubts about a few who ’asn’t, not namin’ any names.’

  Emma had a fair idea who Beattie meant – all the Jagos, apart from Seth. And Caroline Prentiss, if she was still alive.

  ‘I don’t know what you mean,’ Emma said. ‘I’ll bring her up to know right from wrong, and to have respect for her elders.’

  ‘In your eyes that’s all that matters. But what about in the eyes of the Church? I know for certain Seth’s ma would ’ave wanted the little one christened. And so would your ma, even though she ain’t her granny.’

  Emma bridled. She had a good mind to tell Beattie that this was one of those moments when she really needed to mind her own business. Because how could Emma go to St Mary’s and ask the Reverend Thomson to christen Fleur when he’d refused to marry her and Seth?

  ‘An’ just in case you is thinkin’ about her soul, then I’ve got it on good authority that the Reverend Thomson is indisposed with the mumps. And the lay vicar is that lovely young man – looks like one of them angels on the ceiling of St Peter’s in Rome, not that I’ve ever seen ’em mind – from over in Churston. ’E was walkin’ through the lychgate when I passed by. Gawd, ’e’s enough to make an old woman’s ticker give out with desire.’

  ‘You schemer!’ Emma laughed, as much at the thought of Beattie having desires for a young and handsome vicar as she was for her scheming.

  ‘So you’ll go and see ’im?’

  ‘Not today,’ Emma said. She’d need to talk it over with Seth first.

  So, why was it then, that just an hour later, leaving Beattie to give the house a thorough clean, she found herself pushing open the gate to the churchyard up at St Mary’s?

  Emma left Fleur’s perambulator in the lane by the kissing gate that led to a path through to the back of the churchyard.

  Lifting Fleur onto her right hip, she wondered now why she hadn’t brought the baby to see her grandmother – Seth’s ma, Hannah Jago – before.

  She hadn’t visited her parents’ or her brother Johnnie’s graves in ages. The flowers she’d left when last she’d come must be dried up husks of brown stalk now. To her knowledge, Seth hadn’t visited either – or if he had, he hadn’t mentioned it.

  But she had three small posies of flowers now, picked from her own garden. Some jasmine that was heady with scent, some lilac, and some Michaelmas daisies. Each posy was the same size, each tied with a bit of garden twine.

  It wasn’t easy holding a squirming Fleur and the flowers. Fleur was a good weight now for her age. Beattie Drew had urged Emma to feed Fleur up in case she ever got ill. Then she’d have something to lose while she fought the illness, that was what Beattie had advised.

  ‘Papa,’ Fleur said, loud and clear.

  ‘He’s not here,’ Emma said. ‘Il travail avec Monsieur Underwood.’

  Emma often used two languages when s
he spoke to Fleur, and she was pleased to see the child didn’t seem at all confused.

  ‘’Vec,’ Fleur said. She shook her head. ‘Papa, non.’

  ‘That’s right. You understand, don’t you? Papa’s not here.’

  Emma and Seth spent far too much time watching the child’s funny antics, laughing with her. So far, Emma was pleased to see, Fleur was a happy baby. Placid even.

  ‘Here we are, Fleur,’ Emma whispered as she reached Hannah Jago’s grave with its large and ornate headstone. ‘Your grandmama Hannah. Hannah,’ Emma went on, holding Fleur out towards the headstone, ‘this is Seth’s daughter.’

  Not that Hannah would see Fleur, but Emma hoped that if Hannah’s spirit was around she would know.

  Setting Fleur down on the grass for a moment, Emma laid flowers on Hannah Jago’s grave, said a few words in prayer under her breath. She watched as Fleur explored the grass and some weed seedheads with her chubby fingers, chuckling with delight as she managed to rip off a blade of grass and put it to her mouth.

  ‘No, Fleur,’ Emma said, swiftly removing the blade of grass from Emma’s hand. ‘That’s not good to eat. I’ll give you a biscuit, which is much nicer, when we get home.’

  ‘Bisc, bisc,’ Fleur said and stuck out her tongue, as though she could taste the biscuit already.

  Emma scooped the child up into her arms and kissed her. How much easier it was becoming now to love the child, the longer she was with her. And because Seth loved her so. And yet, Emma still couldn’t bring herself to say ‘Mama’s little girl’, the way Seth said, ‘Papa’s little girl’.

  She strode on to her papa’s grave and laid the second small posy. Spoke to him in French – how good it sounded – the words of her childhood spilling out over her tongue, washing down over her papa’s simple gravestone.

  ‘T’aime, t’aime,’ Fleur said, after Emma had told her papa she loved him still.

  ‘Clever girl,’ Emma said. ‘And now my mama.’ Emma strolled on down towards the double grave of her mama and brother Johnnie.

  As she’d thought they would be, what was left of the flowers she’d last laid on the grave were shrivelled-up husks now. With a foot, Emma kicked the dead stalks and flower heads to one side, then laid the fresh posy.

  She set Fleur down on the grass and sat down beside her.

  ‘It wasn’t easy for you was it, Mama? Having babies.’

  The memory of the numerous times her mama had been to Dr Shaw following yet another miscarriage was still there in her head. And her mama’s words that she was a failure not being able to carry a baby beyond six months, apart from Emma and Johnnie, of course.

  Emma wasn’t sure how long she’d been sitting there, talking to her mama sometimes, thinking the words at other times. It was a sheltered spot and the sun warm on her face was making her drowsy. Fleur had already laid her head on Emma’s knees and was now sleeping.

  ‘’Ere, what do you think you’re doing in ’ere?’

  Emma turned sharply towards the voice, then tried to get to her feet but her legs were numb from having sat so long.

  A flash of red coat as someone dodged behind a gravestone, then jumped back out again. Emma recognised that coat. Her mama had made it for her from material unpicked from a soldier’s uniform. And that coat had gone missing when she’d been ill and staying with Mrs Phipps.

  It was Margaret Phipps. Wearing the coat that her mother, Mrs Phipps, had sworn blind she’d never set eyes on. And a couple of other girls. Emma recognised them both, but couldn’t put names to them – all three girls had been a year or two below her at school.

  ‘Didn’ you ’ear? I asked you a question.’

  ‘And I don’t have to answer to you for anything.’

  ‘Yes, you do,’ Margaret Phipps said, moving closer.

  Instinctively, Emma put her arms around Fleur and clutched her tightly. But the quick movement didn’t wake Fleur, she merely muttered as though in the middle of a lovely dream.

  ‘You and your little bastard both is banned from comin’ in ’ere. My ma said.’

  Margaret Phipps had picked up a stick, a sturdy length of fallen tree branch. Sturdy enough to do damage if she were to use it on Emma.

  ‘You don’t know that I’ve been banned or otherwise,’ Emma said. ‘And I’ll thank you not to call my daughter names.’

  How easily Emma had said ‘my daughter’ – for a second she almost believed Fleur was hers.

  She’d tough it out against Margaret Phipps because she’d been threatened by her before and survived. And to her mind, Margaret looked pale, as though she was recovering from some illness or other.

  ‘Your knight in shinin’ armour not with you this time?’ Margaret Phipps said, more a statement than a question

  Seth had come to her rescue the day she’d left the Phipps’ household. She’d returned to Shingle Cottage thinking, wrongly as it happened, that it was still her home, only to find Seth there painting window frames for his father and the cottage let to Matthew Caunter. In a fit of outrage, she’d gone as fast as her wasted body had been able to manage to Hilltop House to have it out with Seth’s father Reuben, only to be set about en route by Margaret Phipps.

  ‘Unless you can see him, no,’ Emma said. She looked about for Seth all the same, willing him – or anyone really – to come to her rescue. But there was no one.

  ‘Ought to take more care of his bastard child, if you ask me.’

  ‘I’m not asking, and I’ll say it again – I’ll thank you not to call my daughter names.’

  ‘I’ll call her a bastard because she is. Can’t say any of us ever ’eard banns for you and Seth Jago bein’ read out in church or been present at the little bastard’s christenin’, ’ave we?’ Margaret Phipps looked to her friends for confirmation of her question. They both shook their heads vigorously. ‘An’ if you’re thinkin’ that criminal you’re living with is going to save you, Emma Le Goff …’

  ‘Seth isn’t a criminal and I’m married to him,’ Emma said. She wiggled her toes willing life into her legs so she could stand, but she could barely feel them. ‘I’m Emma Jago now. Mrs Jago.’

  ‘That’s what you say! I’ve got it on good authority that the Reverend Thomson sent you and ’im packing when you came wantin’ ’im to marry you.’

  ‘Yeh, that’s right,’ one of the other girls said.

  To deny what Margaret Phipps was saying or not? Emma debated the question as quickly as she could and came to the conclusion that Margaret Phipps must have heard the story from somewhere.

  ‘Yes, that’s right,’ Emma said. ‘He did refuse to marry us, but—’

  ‘See!’ Margaret Phipps said, turning to her friends, ‘I said it were true. And in case you’re wonderin’ ’ow it is I knows,’ Margaret said, turning her attention back to Emma, ‘my aunt Ellen is the scullery maid up at the vicarage and ’er ’eard everythin’ that day.’

  Emma couldn’t remember seeing a scullery maid. The housekeeper had let her and Seth in, but they’d left of their own accord, not giving Mr Thomson time to summon her again.

  ‘So, where did you get married, then?’ one of the other girls said.

  ‘Yeh, where?’ Margaret Phipps said.

  She prodded Emma’s shoulder with the end of the stick.

  ‘Don’t do that!’ Emma said.

  ‘I’ll do what I want,’ Margaret Phipps said. ‘Your ’usband threw my ma and me out of our ’ouse.’

  ‘He didn’t. He sold the fishing fleet and all his cottages – tied and otherwise – to Mr Maunder,’ Emma said. ‘Your ma was always months behind with the rent. But my husband turned a blind eye to it because she gave me refuge once. I’m told Mr Maunder made sure you had somewhere to go before you were evicted.’

  ‘My … bleedin’ … sister … Mary … and … ’er … tribe … of … squabblin’ … brats,’ Margaret Phipps said, prodding Emma with the stick each time she spat out a word.

  Emma flinched every time, clutching Fleur all the tighter
.

  And then it came, as she’d known it would – a thwack across the head that sent Emma reeling. Her head jerked backwards and her hair flew off her forehead with the force of it.

  ‘An’ ’ere’s another bruise to go with the one I gave you the other day.’

  This time the stick smacked hard into the side of Emma’s head. ‘Get …’ she began. But she couldn’t finish her sentence as blow after blow rained down on her. Clutching Fleur, she was unable to defend herself.

  One of the other girls called for Margaret Phipps to stop, but she got told to shut her mouth or she’d get the same. The other girls ran, leaving Emma and Margaret Phipps alone.

  ‘Maman, pourquoi tu ne me gardes pas?’ Emma said, although she knew it was impossible for her dead mama, gone to bone now after so many years under the earth, to be protecting her – to save her.

  ‘What devil language is that?’

  ‘French,’ Emma said, just as Fleur woke and began to cry, possibly because Emma was clutching her so tightly.

  ‘Yeh, well, they should never ’ave let Frenchies in ’ere. Or bastards like ’er!’

  Margaret Phipps poked Fleur with the stick. Fleur yelled.

  And Emma found strength now she didn’t know she had. She placed Fleur hurriedly to one side and scrambled to her feet. She lunged at Margaret Phipps in an attempt to take the stick from her. But not quickly enough. Emma felt a searing pain, as though her head was being filled with molten lead, as the stick struck her temple.

  And then everything went black.

  Seth hammered on the door of Shingle Cottage a second time, impatient for his knock to be answered. He ought never to have stopped on at the boatyard so long finishing the portrait he’d been painting for Emma.

  Emma hadn’t been home when he got back. He wished now he’d told Olly he’d be taking the day off to spend Emma’s birthday with her and devil the consequences. But he’d wanted to finish the portrait – an extra birthday present for Emma. It had made him late getting home. The house had been cold, so cold, as though she hadn’t been there for some time. There had been a sort of deadness over everything and he knew in that instant that that was how his life would feel if Emma ever left him. Had she already? He knew she’d been upset that he hadn’t been able to take time off work to spend her birthday with her, even though she hadn’t said as much.