Thirty
Emma and her family settled into city life remarkably well, more because of Emma’s strength of will that determined her to make the best of her lot than that she actually took to the city. In moments of quiet, in that time of half-waking, half-sleeping, she would again imagine she was lying in her own bed at home, listening to the gentle rattle of the mill sails whirling outside her window, the smell of freshly-baked bread permeating the house. Then she would wake feeling vaguely disappointed and for a moment, lost.
Her new friend helped to dispel what might have been – indeed what had been during those early months in the dismal lodging house – a lonely and strange existence for a country-bred girl suddenly plunged into the city streets. Mary Porter took Emma to the market and taught her how to haggle with the stallholders. Then, together, they wandered through the grand stores in the High Street, marvelling at the clothes and jewellery.
‘Too expensive for the likes of us,’ Mary said without a trace of bitterness, ‘but it’s nice to look, ain’t it?’
There had been one incident which had threatened to destroy Emma’s hard won contentment which happened only a few weeks after they had moved into their new home. It was on the first day the rent for their new home fell due that she found out the truth about the man she had married.
Emma had been expecting Mr Rabinski himself to collect his rents, so when the Saturday came and she opened the door to find herself face to face with the same rent man, Forbes, who had called upon them in their previous rooms, she gave a gasp of surprise.
The thin man sneered. ‘Oh, so this is where you’ve fetched up, eh?’
‘But I thought—’ Emma began and then stopped.
‘And what did yet think, Mrs Smith?’ The sneer was still there.
‘Nothing,’ Emma said shortly and clamped her mouth shut, thankful that she knew what the rent was and that she had it safely tucked away beneath her apron, had carried around with her for the last three days so that it should not disappear into Leonard’s pocket and subsequently across the bar at the pub.
With a flourish she produced the money whilst the little man licked the end of his pencil and filled out a fresh page in his book for the new tenants at number fourteen. His beady little eyes kept flashing sly looks at her.
‘S’pect you didn’t think you’d see me again. Mind you, I couldn’t understand why you did a moonlight,’ he said, with calculated casualness and waited a moment. When Emma said nothing, he went on, ‘After all, it’s usually when folks owe that much rent they can’t pay and they reckon I’m about to fetch the bailiffs in.’ Emma could not prevent a gasp from escaping her dry lips and she knew she must have turned a little pale for the man said hurriedly, ‘Don’t worry, Missis. You didn’t owe much at all – well, only the one week – not after that young feller visiting you paid me up to date and a couple of weeks in advance too.’
Emma’s thoughts were in turmoil. So, that was what all the whispering on the landing had been about. William had paid Forbes all the money owing, but because he had said nothing to her and Leonard had not known about it either, her husband had dragged them out in the middle of the night still thinking they owed over three months’ rent.
And, she thought angrily, now she knew too just what ‘doing a moonlight flit’ really meant. How naive and stupid she had been. She had merely thought that it meant you left a place without giving the proper term of notice because you’d found something better. It had never entered her innocent and trusting head, she chastised herself, that it meant leaving suddenly and under the cover of darkness because you owed rent you could not pay. So, the previous occupiers of her present home, the Tomkinsons, had gone off without paying Mr Rabinski what they owed him. And no wonder Leonard had given her some funny looks. He couldn’t understand why she had gone along with it so readily when normally she made such a fuss about being honest. What a fool she had been! She had imagined that her husband had been so eager to get them out of that dreadful place and into a house that he could not wait for morning, when all the time he had been rushing to escape the bailiff’s men. She should have guessed, she castigated herself roundly, when the new house turned out to be worse than the rooms.
Grimly, she said, ‘I knew nothing about owing a week’s rent, Mister, but I’ll have it for you next time you call.’ She wasn’t quite sure just how she was going to manage it, but she was determined that she would.
‘Well, now,’ the man said, leaning nonchalantly against the door jamb and leering at her so that Emma took a step back. ‘Maybe we could come to some little arrangement about that. You and I. Maybe it’s time we got a little more friendly like. My name’s Forbes, but you can call me Peter.’
Emma felt the colour creep up her neck. ‘Well! If you think—’
‘No, no, not that,’ he said hurriedly, putting up his hand out towards her as if to fend off the very idea. ‘My wife’d kill me.’ He smirked again, looking up and down Emma’s handsome, womanly figure, her magnificent bosom and the trim waist that had returned surprisingly quickly after the birth of her second child. ‘Although,’ the little weasel of a man was saying reflectively, ‘it might be worth it.’
Emma felt the palm of her hand itch and she had already begun to raise her arm, when he said laughingly, ‘All right, Missis, all right. What I meant was, can your husband get me in on a game?’
Mystified, Emma repeated stupidly, ‘A game? What sort of a game?’
‘Aw, come on,’ the man sneered. ‘Don’t play the innocent wi’ me.’ Then he bent closer, his beady eyes boring into hers. There was genuine surprise in his tone as he said, ‘By heck, you don’t know, do you?’
When Emma shook her head, he went on with ruthless bluntness, ‘A card game. Your husband’s a gambler. It’s how he makes his living.’
And now Emma’s mouth did drop wide open.
By the time Leonard weaved his way unsteadily into the house in the early hours of the following morning, Emma’s anger was at boiling point. She had waited up all night, determined to learn the truth and with every hour that passed had grown more angry. Though whether it was all directed at her husband or at herself for her blind naivety, even she could not have said. Emma was being hard on herself, for what could she have known about the world that Leonard Smith inhabited? Born and bred in the small community of Marsh Thorpe, sheltered by the narrowness of her everyday life, what could she possibly have known beyond the confines of her father’s domination?
‘A gambler. You’re a gambler! A card sharp.’
Leonard stood in the middle of the room, swaying slightly and staring at her with a vacant, half smile on his face. When he did not answer, she nodded slowly. ‘So. It is true then.’ It explained everything now, everything that had happened. ‘My God, Leonard,’ she burst out with uncharacteristic blasphemy. ‘What more am I going to learn about you?’ There was silence before she asked, more quietly now, for the anger had suddenly drained out of her. ‘Tell me one thing. Just one thing. Did my father know what you did before we got married?’
Leonard ran his hand through his dark hair and with the other hand sought the support of the back of a chair. Then he lunged towards it and fell into it. He leant his head back and sighed deeply. ‘Of course he did,’ he said flatly. ‘Harry Forrest was no fool.’
‘The bitterness in his voice was not lost on Emma and she knew he was referring, yet again, to the terms of her father’s will. Emma pressed her lips together tightly, refusing to let the tears fall, but inside, she was being torn apart. There was not one small shred of pride to be salvaged. Her father had knowingly and willingly married her to a gambler and, for that, she would never forgive him. Her humiliation was complete. In his bitterness against her for being a girl and not the son he wanted so passionately, her father had cared nothing for her. The only time that she had ever pleased him, she thought, was when she had given him a grandson.
She sat at the kitchen table, her rage against Leonard dying to be replaced by a d
ull ache of sadness. But there was something else too; curiosity, and with her usual determination, she clung to it.
She mashed a pot of tea and poured out two cupfuls, hot and strong and sweet. Pushing one across the table towards her husband, she said quietly, ‘Tell me about it. About what you really do. I’m intrigued.’
He sat up and reached for the cup, taking satisfying gulps, like a man thirsting.
‘It’s all I know, Emma. It’s all I can do,’ he said flatly, yet Emma thought she detected a hint of wistfulness. ‘I never knew my father.’ A wry smile twisted his lips. ‘I sometimes wonder if my mother even knew who he was. My childhood was punctuated by a series of “uncles”. Some stayed a few months, some only weeks. The one that stayed the longest – nearly four years actually – ’ there was almost a note of surprise in his voice, ‘when I was about ten was called Mick. I liked him – really liked him. He was the closest I ever had to a dad. And,’ he spread his hands in explanation, ‘he was a gambler. It’s as simple as that. He taught me a lot and I was a quick learner. He got me into games dead easy ’cos fellers thought that anyone could beat a twelve-year-old. But when we got playing,’ the smile broadened mischievously, ‘they soon found out different. Oh, we ’ad some nasty moments, but I soon learnt to use my fists. He taught me how to take care of myself, did Mick.’ Leonard leant back in the chair and closed his eyes. ‘Oh, I liked Mick. I liked him a lot.’
‘What happened to him?’ she probed, beginning to feel more sorry for this man now than angry with him.
He sighed heavily. ‘Same as all the rest, I expect. They died, or went back to their wives, or Mother got tired of them when she found a better fish. One day Mick just went out, and never came back.’
Emma stared at him incredulously. ‘Just like that?’
‘Yes,’ he said and even now, after all this time, she could still hear the hurt of a bewildered young boy in Leonard’s voice. ‘Just like that.’
She stood up and went to stand on the peg rug in front of the fire. The red glow illuminated her face, casting shadows and shining on her skin, silhouetting her round, inviting figure in its soft light.
‘Leonard,’ she said softly. ‘There’s only one thing I want to know. Is what you do against the law?’
He sat up and leant forward, leaning his elbows on his knees, clasping his hands in front of him and staring straight into the burning coals. ‘Yes – and no.’
She knelt in front of him on the rug and stared into his face. Slowly he raised his eyes and looked into hers. Suddenly sober, he said quietly, ‘All I can tell you is that the card games are set up and all those who take part do so of their own free will. I don’t cheat, either.’ He grinned lopsidedly. ‘I don’t need to, I’m too good. The only time there might be a bit of a problem is if someone gets carried away and loses more than he can afford. But . . .’ he spread his hands, ‘it’s their own fault if they do.’
‘And is that all you do, Leonard? Just – play cards?’
‘No,’ he seemed to be picking his words carefully now. ‘I do a bit of trading in other ways, buying and selling. Y’know.’
‘No, Leonard, that’s just it. I don’t know.’ When he said no more and seemed to be avoiding her eyes, she gasped and said, ‘Oh, Leonard, no! You don’t mean stolen goods?’
‘Don’t ask me that, Emma. It’s best that you don’t know. Really it is. What you don’t know, can’t hurt you.’
Can’t it? she thought, but for once Emma remained silent.
At least I know the truth now, she said to herself and sighed, but the knowledge didn’t bring her any comfort nor make her future any more secure. Indeed, as the weeks and months passed, every knock on her door made her jump, made her peek out of the window before opening up to strangers. Any moment, she expected that the figure standing there would be dressed in a dark uniform. It made her realize just how precarious their living was and explained how Leonard had pockets bulging with winnings one day and was hiding from the rent man the next.
‘Tek in a bit o’ washing,’ Mary suggested helpfully. In a moment of desperation when they already owed two weeks’ rent and Mr Forbes was due to call again the following day for another four, Emma had confided in her friend though without telling her the details of why their existence was so precarious. ‘There’s plenty of posh houses uphill put their washing out to the likes of us living downhill. You might even pick up a bit of cleaning work now and then. I don’t mind ’aving the little one now and again for you, if you like.’
A look of doubt crossed Emma’s face. ‘It’s very kind of you, Mary. But Billy’s a right little tyke. D’you really know what you’re offering?’
Mary chuckled. ‘I’ve had three lads of me own, m’duck, and our Joey’s the youngest and the best of the lot. The older two were little beggars, I don’t mind telling you.’
Emma had not met Mary’s two older sons for they were grown up and had left home and were working in a factory in Sheffield.
‘Well, if you’re sure,’ Emma said, her mind working quickly. If she could just earn enough each week to cover the rent, at least that would keep a roof over their heads.
‘’Course I am.’
Charles was still a quiet, rather shy boy, but he seemed happy enough trotting after the older Joey Porter with the devotion of a puppy. But over Billy, Emma shook her head. ‘He was trouble with a capital T from the moment he was born. Before an’ all, if you count the uncomfortable nine months and all that kicking.’
And as soon as the young Billy Smith started walking, Emma no longer knew where he was from one minute to the next. He was a street child from the time he could toddle, the ring leader amongst his peers, frightened of nothing and no one, a daredevil egged on by others to greater and greater deeds of daring.
‘He’ll come to a bad end, will that lad,’ Mary Porter would shake her head. ‘Mind you, he’s got some spirit, I’ll grant you.’
Emma would sigh and view both her sons with bewilderment, wondering just how they came to have the characters they did. Billy was his father’s son with the same cherubic charm, the same temper and the same deviousness. As he grew, the boy would come home with the pockets of his short trousers jingling with the ha’pennies he’d won at marbles or conkers or some other game depending on the time of year.
‘That’s my boy,’ Leonard would laugh proudly, ruffling the child’s dark hair and Billy would look up at his father with a cheeky grin and in his eyes was a knowledge far beyond his years. Emma would turn away and catch sight of Charles melting into the shadows, no match for his charismatic brother. Surprisingly, though, the two boys were remarkably fond of each other, despite the difference in their ages and the complete antithesis of their characters. The amusing thing was that, of the two, it was Billy who was the natural leader, and, from the time Billy could walk, it was Charles who followed in his younger brother’s wake.
Thirty-One
Once Emma had taken over the responsibility of finding the rent each week, she felt a little more secure, though Leonard’s temperamental moods grew worse, rather than better. When he had money, he spent freely, buying presents for her and the two boys. At such times he came home decidedly less than sober most nights. When money was tight, his temper was short. If the boys annoyed him, he would raise his hand and take a swipe at them, uncaring on what part of their anatomy the blow landed. When his rages filled the small terraced house, Charles would creep next door to find refuge with the happy-go-lucky Porter family, but young Billy, even when quite small, would stand his ground, taking the blows and outstaring his father.
‘Why do you do it, love?’ Emma would ask with exasperation. ‘Why don’t you just keep out of his way, like Charles?’
‘I aren’t a coward,’ Billy began and winced as his mother dabbed iodine on to the cut on his lip inflicted by Leonard.
Emma thought back briefly to the night of the storm that had wrecked the mill and said quietly, ‘Neither is Charles, if push comes to shove. But he doesn
’t ask for trouble like you, young Billy. He tries to avoid it if he can. He’s got a bit of common sense.’
He grinned up at her cheekily, his wounds forgotten. ‘He’s all right, our Charlie. ’Sides,’ the seven-year-old swaggered, ‘he’s got me to look after him, ain’t he?’
The irony of the fact that Charles, at nearly fourteen, needed a seven-year-old to ‘look after him’ was not lost on her. Emma sighed and turned away without answering. Oh yes, she thought grimly, and he’s got you to lead him astray too.
Only Billy ever called his brother ‘Charlie’, for, to Emma’s mind, there was only one Charlie – Grandpa Charlie Forrest – and her reserved elder son bore no resemblance at all to the ebullient man she remembered. If anything, she thought, Billy was closer to the daredevil her grandfather had reputedly been in his youth. Her younger son certainly had daring and charisma, yet there any similarity ended, for Billy had also inherited the darker, more devious, side of his own father’s nature. There was a cunning about the young boy that was disconcerting, and to his mother, worrying, for she had not been able to prevent Leonard from teaching his son the tricks of his trade and the boy was fast becoming more streetwise than Emma liked.
‘Oh, Grandpa Charlie,’ she would murmur in quiet, reflective moments, ‘why couldn’t one of them have been more like you?’
Bridget had visited them now and again through the years, arriving unannounced in a flurry of excitement and laughter, leaving a waft of her flowery perfume wherever she went. She idolized Billy and whilst she was kind enough to bring presents for both boys, it never entered her pretty head that her obvious affection for the younger boy might hurt the older one. It was to Charles’ credit that he never showed any jealousy at all towards Billy.
The Miller's Daughter Page 23