‘Mum, this is Micky.’
Emma turned round slowly, knowing what she was going to see even before she found herself looking directly into a pair of blue-grey eyes that made time take a tilt.
He was tall for his age, taller than Leonard had been. Micky had the same eyes, the same dark hair and the same engaging smile. Completely unaware of the tumult of emotions the sight of him was causing her, the boy was holding out his hand towards her and saying politely, ‘Good evening, Mrs Metcalfe. I hope we’re not late. The dance went on a bit.’
‘No, no, it’s all right,’ Emma heard herself saying mechanically and adding lamely, ‘as long as we know where she is.’
She saw the two youngsters exchange a glance and could almost read their thoughts. Parents!
Oh, yes, m’lad, Emma was thinking. Parents, it is indeed, but not in the way you’re thinking.
With relief she heard the back door open and William, returning from locking up outside for the night, came into the kitchen. His glance went immediately from his daughter to the boy and then his gaze swivelled to meet Emma’s. ‘Well, now,’ he said, rubbing his hands together. ‘Come along in and have a drink before you go, lad. Far, is it?’
‘No, sir.’ The boy was all courteousness. Too courteous, Emma thought suspiciously. ‘Only about three miles and it’s a fine night.’
Lottie was smiling up at him, her blue eyes shining. ‘I told him to stay on the bus, but he would insist on getting off and seeing me to the door.’ Emma noticed that the girl’s hand fluttered out and touched his, the lightest, feather touch. Micky turned swiftly and gave Lottie a broad wink.
‘Oh!’ Emma’s hand flew to her mouth and the tiny cry escaped her lips before she could prevent it. A hot sweat spread through her and she closed her eyes. Forty years ago Leonard had stood in this very room and winked at her, a naive, inexperienced nineteen-year-old. And now, if what she believed was really true, Leonard’s son was standing almost on the same spot and flirting with her daughter in the same way.
‘Mum? What is it? Are you all right?’ As if from a great distance she heard Lottie’s voice. ‘You’ve gone ever so white. Come on, sit down.’
Emma opened her eyes and took a deep breath. ‘I’m fine, love. A bit tired, that’s all.’
‘I’d better go,’ Micky began, but Emma waved his protestations aside. ‘No, no, really. Go upstairs with Mr Metcalfe and we’ll bring some coffee up.’
As William led the young man upstairs to the sitting room above the shop, Lottie whispered, ‘Well? What do you think? He is a dish, isn’t he?’
‘Yes, oh yes, he’s a dish all right,’ Emma replied, finding it difficult to keep the resentment from her tone.
‘What is it, Mum?’ The girl’s voice trembled. ‘Don’t you like him?’
There was a moment’s pause and then Emma shook herself and forced a smile on to her mouth. She was being so unfair to Lottie, who was completely ignorant about who the boy might be. It wasn’t the girl’s fault, but Emma sighed inwardly, things would have to be stopped before they went too far.
‘It’s not that, darling. Don’t worry. He seems a very nice boy.’ Emma avoided meeting her daughter’s shrewd gaze. ‘Come on, butter some plum bread. Boys of his age are always hungry, I know.’
Sitting slightly apart from the other three, watching and listening to them talking, Emma could not help feeling how nice it was to have a young man in the house again. She had missed her boys more than she had realized, and she could almost imagine it was Charles or even young Billy sitting there laughing and teasing Lottie. But Charles was dead and Billy, settled in Australia, had not been home for years. Lottie really did not know her half-brother at all.
The cup trembled in her hand and rattled in the saucer as, with a sudden jolt, Emma realized that if the boy sitting with such ease in her front room was indeed Leonard’s son, then, although he was no blood relative of Lottie’s, he was her son Billy’s half-brother, just as Lottie was Billy’s half-sister.
‘We’ve got to put a stop to it before she gets in too deep.’ William frowned worriedly. ‘How can we do anything unless we tell her the truth? And that means telling her everything.’
Emma met his gaze and her chin rose a little higher in defiance. ‘Then,’ she said, keeping her voice steady, ‘we’ll have to tell her everything.’ She leant closer. ‘Don’t you see, William, if this boy Micky really is his son, Leonard might still be alive?’
‘That’s exactly what I do mean. And maybe we’re not legally married. That’s part of what we’ve got to tell Lottie.’
Emma let out a long sigh. ‘I know.’ She put her hand on his arm and with great sadness said again, ‘I know.’
Almost inaudibly, William murmured, ‘And you know what that makes our daughter?’
Now rebellion sparkled in Emma’s brilliant eyes. ‘There’s worse things in this world than being illegitimate. She has two parents who love her dearly and besides, it was hardly our fault, now was it? And another thing, maybe Leonard’s married again.’
William gave a bark of wry laughter. ‘Well, we can plead ignorance, but he can’t, now can he? He would knowingly have been committing bigamy.’ He was thoughtful for a moment and then said, ‘But what grounds have we to stop Lottie and Micky being, well, whatever they want to be? I mean, they’re not related, are they?’
‘Not by blood, no. But you know what Leonard was. A gambler, a con-man living only just on the right side of the law.’ Remembering her life in the city with him, the dread of hearing a knock on the door and then the final fiasco over the wireless set, Emma muttered, ‘Scarcely that at times. That’s not the sort of life you want for Lottie, is it?’
William spread his hands. ‘But that doesn’t mean to say this lad is the same. You can’t condemn him—’
‘If he is Leonard’s son, then of course he’ll be like him.’
‘Charles was his son,’ William reminded her gently. ‘And a finer lad you could not have met.’
Emma smiled, remembering, then her smile faded. ‘But young Billy was his double. Leonard trained him, William. He wanted his son to be like him. He was proud of it.’ She wriggled uncomfortably as another memory thrust its way into her mind. ‘And Bridget, she indulged Billy too. He – he was her favourite. “Like father, like son,” she used to say.’ Emma leant towards William and added, ‘And that’s exactly what she’ll be saying with this son too.’
Helplessly, William shook his head. ‘Darling, we’re still not even sure Micky is Leonard’s son.’
‘There’s something else I’ve remembered too. I once asked Leonard about his father, but he couldn’t remember him. It seems Bridget never actually married at all. But he said there was one man who stayed with her longer than the rest when he was a boy. Leonard said that man was the closest he’d ever had to a father figure. And he was a gambler. “Taught me everything he knew.” Leonard actually said those words. He was proud of it, William, as if he’d idolized the man. And I could tell from the way he spoke that he still, even after all that time, felt the hurt of that man leaving.’
William was frowning, obviously wondering what all this had to do with their present concern.
‘That man’s name,’ Emma said slowly and deliberately, ‘was Mick.’
‘Oh,’ William said. ‘I see.’ He was thoughtful for a moment and then said, ‘But it still doesn’t prove anything. Not really.’
Emma swallowed. She could hardly tell her husband just why she was so certain that Micky Smith was Leonard’s son, but she knew he was. Oh yes, she knew as certainly as she knew the sun would rise over the sails of Forrest’s Mill the following morning.
Quietly, she said, ‘You know, I could settle this one way or the other.’
‘How?’
‘I could go to Thirsby to see this boy’s grandmother.’
William stared and then nodded slowly. ‘And if it is Bridget – then, then at least we’ll know.’
Forty-Four
Emma
sat behind the wheel of the truck and started the engine. William, his hands on the door where the window was wound down, said, ‘Are you sure you don’t want me to come with you?’
She shook her head and tried to smile but the nervousness in the pit of her stomach felt like fluttering butterflies. ‘No, no, I’m better going on my own, though I’d love you to be with me. You know that.’
William smiled, touched her shoulder, saying, ‘Well, good luck, then.’ He stepped back and raised his hand in farewell as she let in the clutch and the vehicle moved slowly towards the gate into the road.
If it hadn’t been for her errand, Emma would have enjoyed the short drive through the countryside between the two villages. The day was scorching, without a breath of wind, and in the lanes, bordered by high hedges, the heat shimmered above the surface of the road. In the fields, cows congregated under the trees seeking whatever shade they could find.
She had no idea where Micky’s grandmother lived so, as she approached Thirsby, she slowed down looking for a post office or a village shop. She knew how often strangers called into her shop to asking for directions.
The bell clanged as she stepped inside the tiny shop. Like her own premises, it was part of a double-fronted house. The woman behind the counter beamed a welcome.
‘I’m sorry to trouble you, but I’m looking for Micky Smith. I believe he lives with his grandmother. Do you know him?’
The woman laughed. ‘Well, I should do. He’s our Sunday paperboy. He’s a nice lad,’ she said. ‘Yew Cottage. That’s where he lives, as you say, with his gran.’
Emma held her breath. ‘And her name is?’
‘Mrs Smith, of course.’ The woman stared a moment, then laughed. ‘Oh, I see, it might not be the same name if it was his mother’s mother. But, in this case, it is the same.’
Emma’s heart sank.
‘Yes,’ the woman was saying. ‘She’s his dad’s mother. Young Micky’s been living with her, oh now, let’s see? Since last September time. His dad visits from time to time, though.’
Emma felt a sweat that had nothing to do with the heat of the day break out all over her body. Her voice was a croak as she said. ‘His – his father?’ Then she clung to a vestige of new hope. Perhaps, after all, Micky wasn’t Leonard’s son, perhaps he was nothing to do with Leonard or Bridget or . . . But at the woman’s next words her hopes sank even further.
‘Oh yes, he comes two or three times a year to see his mother. Lovely lady she is, pretty as a picture even at her age. He’s a nice bloke too, but,’ she leaned over the counter as if imparting a confidence, ‘a bit on the flash side for us village folk. But he’s a real charmer.’ She winked and nodded, ‘Know what I mean?’
‘Oh yes,’ Emma murmured, ‘I know what you mean,’ and added bitterly in her own mind, only too well!
‘Where do I find Yew Cottage?’
The woman pointed, ‘Carry on up the street, take the first left and it’s the last cottage on the left as you leave the village. You can’t miss it ’cos it’s got a huge yew tree in the front garden.’
Murmuring her thanks, Emma left the shop and followed the woman’s directions. In a few moments she was drawing up outside the cottage. She pulled on to the grass verge and switched off the engine. She sat a minute summoning up the courage for what, she was more than ever sure now, she had to face.
It was a pretty little thatched cottage. The neatly-kept borders were edged with white alyssum and purple lobelia in alternating clumps, alongside bright yellow shrubs. But the garden was dominated, overpowered almost, by the huge yew tree which stood in the centre of the lawn, the ground beneath its thick branches so hidden from the light that the grass no longer grew there.
‘Why, Emma, my dear. How lovely.’ The woman’s delight was genuine, Emma knew. She sighed. This was going to be even more difficult than she had imagined. Bridget was so disarmingly open, so transparently guileless. Surely she could not know about Micky’s friendship with Lottie?
‘Come in, come in.’ The door was pulled open wider and Emma found herself stepping out of the bright sunlight and into the contrast of a shadowy, tiny hallway. Bridget led the way into a sunny sitting room and towards the French windows thrown open to the sun and leading out on to a paved area.
‘I love to sit here in the summer, as long as I don’t get too much sun,’ Bridget patted her smooth cheek, her laughter tinkling and Emma, despite her errand, found herself smiling. It had always been difficult, impossible really, to resist this woman’s charms. ‘Sit down, sit down, let me make you a cup of tea. Oh, Emma, it is lovely to see you again.’
She reached out and clasped Emma’s hands in her own slim fingers. Amazingly, she looked little changed, still slender in her floating chiffon dress and high heeled shoes.
‘No, no, don’t trouble, Bridget. Really. Please – ’ the words came out stiffly, haltingly, ‘please sit down. There’s something I want to talk to you about.’
Bridget’s mouth made a small, silent ‘oh’ but, obediently, she sat in the chair opposite and folded her hands neatly in her lap, looking like a naughty school girl about to be scolded.
Emma looked at her properly and saw that beneath the carefully applied make-up the wrinkles were there. The golden hair looked so perfect that Emma wondered if it was a wig. And Bridget’s hands, still slim and elegant, had the tell-tale purple veins of age on the back. What age must she be now? Emma’s mind clutched at another thought, any other thought, to put off the moment when she must face the reason that had brought her here. Bridget had to be eighty at least. If so, then the woman was incredible.
She was leaning forward saying gently, ‘What is it, my dear? Not bad news?’ Even her voice was not the quavery tone of an octogenarian. It was still light, almost girlish.
‘Well . . .’ Emma began and then hesitated. No, she told herself sharply, it was not bad news at least not the kind Bridget meant. ‘Not really, I just want to talk to you, to ask you something. About Micky.’
The woman’s eyes glowed with tenderness and she clasped her hands together. ‘Oh, he’s the joy of my old age, Emma. Such a dear, dear boy. And so clever too. He goes to the Grammar School in Calceworth, you know?’
‘Yes,’ Emma said slowly and added, with deliberate emphasis, ‘and so does my daughter, Charlotte.’
‘Does she? How nice . . .’ Bridget began and then her eyes widened. ‘Oh, you mean, they know each other?’
Her mouth tight, Emma nodded. ‘They know each other very well. Too well.’
Bridget looked puzzled for a moment. ‘But Micky’s never mentioned anyone called—’ Suddenly she clapped her hand over her mouth in the childish gesture Emma remembered so well. ‘Of course – Lottie. She’s your daughter?’
‘Have you met her? Has he brought her home? Here?’
Bridget shook her head. ‘No,’ she said slowly and added, ‘but he talks of no one else. You’re right Emma. They are close. Very close.’
The two women stared at each other.
‘I presume,’ Emma said carefully and felt her heart thudding painfully, ‘Micky is Leonard’s son.’
Suddenly, Bridget looked a little old woman. She seemed to shrink before Emma’s eyes. The joy seemed to go out of her face and she leant back wearily against the cushions.
‘Yes,’ she whispered. ‘He’s Leonard’s boy.’
Emma rose slowly. ‘Let me make you some tea, Bridget. I think we could both do with a cup now.’
The older woman nodded and Emma found her own way into the neat kitchen, finding all she needed readily to hand for an afternoon tray of tea things was already laid out in the kitchen. Minutes later, when she carried it back outside the French windows, she tried to say lightheartedly. ‘I could almost imagine you were expecting me.’
Bridget, the colour back in her face, smiled though her voice was a little tremulous as she said, ‘I always have a cup of tea and some cake waiting for Micky when he gets home from school. You know what boys are, always ravenou
s.’
She made no move to pour out the tea herself but sat back leaving it to Emma.
Handing her a cup, Emma said gently, ‘Bridget, why did you never come and tell me that Leonard was alive?’ She was finding the realization that Bridget had known for years but had never told her, rather hurtful.
‘Now, how could I, Emma dear? He was a deserter who could have been arrested. Besides, you were – are still, I hope – happy with William and your little girl.’ The elegant shoulders lifted. ‘Why stir up trouble?’
‘But I would like to have known,’ Emma murmured reproachfully. ‘You could have trusted me, you know.’
The china blue eyes, still remarkably clear, were regarding Emma steadily. ‘Leonard said you were always so honest. He wasn’t sure how you would react.’
Emma gasped and felt the colour flood her face. She could well imagine that such a remark had been made with a sneer.
‘That’s not fair. How could he say that? I never let him down. Not even,’ she added bitterly, remembering the wireless set again, ‘when it was against my own instincts.’
Sipping the tea, Bridget said, ‘Leonard’s a rogue, Emma. I can’t deny it any longer.’
Startled, Emma’s cup rattled in the saucer and she gave a gasp of surprise. Even from the ingenuous Bridget she had not expected such honesty.
‘Oh, I love him, I always have, I always will. He’s my son. But I’m not as silly and feckless and blind to his faults as people believe.’ Her steady gaze met Emma’s. ‘I know I’ve been painted a scarlet woman most of my life, Emma, but I’ve never deliberately hurt anyone. I had a lot of fun and I had a lot of love. But I gave a lot of love, yes, and fun, too.’ Her mouth quirked. ‘Even to your poor old dad, eh? And I never went with married men, whatever anyone says. I never took another woman’s husband away from her. And there were times when I could have done.’ Her eyes were dreamy looking back down the years. ‘There was a Major once. He showered me with flowers and gifts, but I wouldn’t have any of it. He had a wife and three children.’ She shook her head, ‘Oh no. Whatever else I may have done – may have been – ’ she shot a mischievous, almost coquettish, glance at Emma, ‘I never took another woman’s man. Actually, that’s how I came to Marsh Thorpe – to escape the Major.’
The Miller's Daughter Page 32