TWENTY-SEVEN
‘There’s the Mucky Duck, luv,’ said the tinker, drawing his horse and cart to a standstill in York Road and pointing a stubby and none too clean finger at the public house.
‘But it says “Black Swan”,’ exclaimed Emma, reading the name on the sign swinging in the breeze. Confirming the lettering was a picture of a white pond upon which floated a somewhat primitive painting of an ebony swan, neck arched in such an ungainly fashion it was hardly a lifelike rendition of that elegant bird.
The tinker’s wife, all Romany-dark curls and wrinkled tanned face, cackled uproariously at Emma’s astonishment. ‘Aye, lass, that’s wot they calls the Black Swan in Leeds. The Mucky Duck. Don’t yer get it?’ She cackled again, displaying several gold teeth that glittered as brightly as the golden rings looped through her ears and which dropped below the red-and-white-checkered scarf draped on top of her gypsy hair.
‘Yes, I do,’ said Emma with an amused smile. She clutched her reticule to her and climbed down carefully from the cart. The tinker handed her the large leather suitcase which Edwin had deposited in her room yesterday with the five pounds. She looked up at the tinker and his gypsy wife and said gravely, and with enormous politeness, ‘Thank you very much for giving me the ride all the way from Shipley. It was very kind of you.’
‘Nay, lass, it weren’t no trouble,’ said the tinker kindly. ‘Glad ter be of service ter a fine young lady like thee.’ He flicked the reins and the dilapidated cart moved off, pots and pans strung on the sides rattling and banging merrily as the old wheels turned in rickety rhythm. The tinker’s wife looked back, shouting, ‘Lots o’ luck in Leeds, me pretty ’un.’
‘Thank you,’ Emma called, waving at the retreating cart. She stood outside the pub for a moment and then picked up the suitcase, took a deep breath, and pushed open the swinging doors made of heavy wood, the upper panels inset with opaque glass embellished with engraved lilies and swans. She immediately found herself in a narrow and gloomy passage that smelled strongly of stale beer, tobacco smoke, and the faint reek of gas from the jets on the walls. The latter were lined with a dull brown wallpaper that only reinforced the forbidding atmosphere, which prevailed in spite of the burning gas jets and was not very inviting.
Emma looked about curiously. There was a carefully printed notice pinned on one wall which declared in large letters: Women in shawls not allowed in here! It seemed to her like an ominous warning. The opposite wall sported a repulsive painting of a charging bull in an equally ugly ornate gilt frame. Emma shuddered, her critical eye offended by its hideousness. Ahead of her was another set of double swinging doors, also inset with opaque glass, and she hurried forward and went through them. Emma stood in the entrance of what was obviously the main bar. It was brightly illuminated and infinitely more cheerful, with its colourful wallpaper and attractive sepia prints, and there was a piano in one corner. The bar was empty, except for two men leaning against the back wall drinking their frothing pints and chatting amiably together. Emma’s sharp eyes scanned the surroundings, missing nothing. Two other rooms opened off the main bar. The sign hanging above the archway leading into one proclaimed it to be the Saloon Bar, while the other was labelled Tap Room. In the Tap Room she could see a lone workman playing darts, and two old men were seated at a table absorbed in a game of dominoes, clay pipes firmly clenched between their individual sets of nicotine-stained teeth, smoke swirling fuggily around them.
Emma now glanced towards the bar itself. Several large mirrors hung on the wall behind it, each one extolling the virtues of Tetley’s pale ale and other local beers in black and gold lettering. There were innumerable bottles of spirits glittering against the mirrored backdrop and below them great kegs of beer. The long and expansive mahogany counter was polished to a sheen as glassy and almost as shimmering a surface as the mirrors themselves, and just visible above the mahogany bar was a mop of blonde hair. Emma walked sedately across the room, her boots tip-tapping lightly on the wooden floor. Out of the corner of her eye she was aware of the two men regarding her, but she paid no attention and kept her glance fixed unwaveringly ahead.
When she reached the bar she put down the suitcase, but gripped the reticule in her hands. The blonde head bobbed about below the bar. Emma cleared her throat. ‘Excuse me,’ she said.
The blonde head swivelled to reveal a cheerful face that was open and honest. It was a pink and white face, and extremely pretty, with full cheeks and dimples and merry brown eyes that danced under shapely blonde brows. ‘Yes, luv?’ said the blonde lady, rising slowly and somewhat ponderously from her crouching position, holding a glass tankard and a cloth in her hands.
Emma had to stifle a gasp, for that face, so sweet and dimpling and extraordinarily pretty, and that blonde head with its array of elaborately dressed curls, sat atop an enormously fat body that was also amazingly tall. Her incredible body was tightly encased in a bright yellow cotton dress with a low square neckline and short puffed sleeves. Gargantuan bosom, portions of wide shoulders, and long plumpish arms were in striking evidence and were also white and pinkly tinted and soft.
The lady was looking at her questioningly and Emma said courteously, ‘I’m looking for a Miss Rosie. I was told she was the barmaid here.’
The pink face broke into a wide and friendly smile that was also highly engaging and full of the most natural charm. ‘Well, yer’ve found her, luv. That’s me. I’m Rosie. What can I do for yer, miss?’
Emma’s taut body relaxed and she found herself automatically smiling back at the beaming Rosie. ‘I’m a friend of Blackie O’Neill’s. He told me that you would take a message for him. Get it to him quickly, or to his Uncle Pat.’
Ho! Ho! thought Rosie, concealing a knowing look. So Blackie was up to his tricks again with the lasses, was he! Well, he certainly knows how ter pick ’em, commented Rosie to herself. This one’s a real looker. Rosie planted the glass and the cloth on the bar and said, ‘Yes, luv, I can get a message ter Blackie. Trouble is, it won’t do yer any good. He’s not in Leeds, yer see. He went off yesterday. Yer’ve just missed him. Aye, he went ter Liverpool ter get the boat ter Ireland. Summat about going ter see an old priest who was very badly, mebbe dying, so Blackie was telling me afore he left.’
‘Oh, dear,’ said Emma, and distress registered on her face so acutely Rosie could not fail to notice it. The Junoesque barmaid stretched out her plump arm and rested plump fingers on Emma’s hand gently. ‘Are yer all right, luv? Yer look a bit faintish ter me. How about a brandy or a rum and pep, mebbe? Do yer good, yer knows.’
Emma shook her head, endeavouring to quell the anxiety flaring within her. ‘No, thank you, Miss Rosie. I don’t drink spirits,’ she murmured. The possibility that Blackie would be away had never occurred to her. She was so shaken she found it difficult to speak.
‘Then how about a nice glass of lemon pop?’ went on Rosie, regarding Emma carefully. ‘It’s refreshing and yer looks ever so peaked ter me.’ Without waiting for a response, Rosie uncorked a bottle of lemonade and poured a glass. Emma did not want to spend the money for the lemon drink. Every penny was precious to her; yet, then again, she did not want to offend Rosie either, who was being so kind and friendly.
‘Thank you,’ Emma said softly, and opened her handbag. ‘How much is it, please?’
‘Nay, lass, it’s nowt. This one’s on the ’ouse. On Rosie,’ she said, placing the brimming glass in front of Emma. ‘Go on, ’ave a sip. It won’t kill yer,’ she added jocularly, and laughed. Then her merry face sobered. The girl had turned as white as chalk and Rosie immediately noticed that the small hand in the white crocheted glove trembled as it picked up the glass.
‘ ’Ere, ’Arry! Fetch me one of them there stools from out of the Tap Room, will yer, please?’ called Rosie to one of the men at the far end of the bar. ‘This ’ere young lady looks a bit wobbly on her pins ter me.’
‘Right, Rosie,’ said the man named Harry. He returned instantly, carrying a tall stool. ‘ ’
Ere yer are, luv, sit yerself down,’ he said, and gave Emma a warm smile before he rejoined his mate.
‘Thank you.’ Emma perched on the stool gratefully. She felt weak and her head was swimming at the alarming news Rosie had imparted about Blackie.
Rosie leaned her elbows on the bar and looked at Emma intently, a concerned expression on her face, her jolliness dissipated. ‘Look, luv, I knows it’s none of me business, but do yer have troubles? Yer seems ever so upset ter me.’
Emma hesitated. Distrustful by nature, she also firmly believed in the old north-country adage, ‘a still tongue and a wise head’, and she was therefore not given to confiding anything in anyone. Now her mind worked rapidly and with its usual shrewdness. She was in a strange place. An enormous city. She did not know her way around. With Blackie in Ireland she had no one to turn to for help. And so she came to a swift decision. She would trust Rosie—but only to a certain extent. She had no choice, really. But first she had one other question and it was of vital importance.
She returned Rosie’s steady gaze and instead of spilling out her troubles, as the barmaid probably expected, she said, ‘What about Blackie’s Uncle Pat? Could I go and see him and perhaps find out when Blackie is returning? He is, isn’t he?’
‘Oh, yes, luv. Blackie’ll be back in a couple of weeks or so. A fortnight he said he was going for. But it won’t do yer any good going ter see Pat either. He’s in Doncaster doing a right big building job. He’s gone for a bit, I expects.’
Emma sighed and stared fixedly at the lemonade. Rosie waited patiently, not wanting to appear nosy but, riddled with curiosity, she insisted, ‘Why don’t yer tell me yer troubles, luv? Perhaps I can help.’
After only a moment’s further hesitation, Emma said, ‘Yes, I do have a problem. I have to find a place to stay. A boardinghouse. Perhaps you can advise me, Miss Rosie. That’s why I wanted to see Blackie.’
‘ ’Ere, lass, what’s all this Miss Rosie? We don’t stand on ceremony around ’ere. Everybody calls me Rosie. Just Rosie, plain and simple like. And why don’t yer tell me yer name, being as how yer a friend of a friend.’
Emma thought of her father and the possibility of him searching for her. But from the note she had left he would believe she had gone to Bradford and he did not know about the Mucky Duck or Blackie’s last name. She was safe. ‘It’s Emma Harte,’ she said, and added, to her own amazement, ‘Mrs Harte.’
Rosie’s eyes widened. ‘Are yer married, then?’ she asked, thinking: And where’s the husband? but refrained from prying. Emma nodded, not trusting herself to say anything else for the moment. She had surprised herself more than she had surprised Rosie.
‘Well, seeing as we’re properly acquainted, so ter speak, and now that I knows yer problem, let’s get down ter brass tacks. Yer looking for a place ter park yerself. Mmmmm. Let me think on that.’ Rosie frowned, her eyes thoughtful.
‘What about that boarding-house where Blackie lives? Couldn’t I go there?’ Emma volunteered. She was feeling a little calmer, thinking more clearly.
‘By gum, no lass!’ exclaimed Rosie with such vehemence Emma was startled. ‘I couldn’t be letting a luvely young lady like thee go down there, ter the blinking “ham and shank”—that’s the Bank, yer knows, near the Leylands. Full of toughs, it is. No, luv, that wouldn’t be fitting like.’ Rosie scowled and seriously pondered this problem, wanting to help the girl. After a moment her face resumed its usual jolly expression and she smiled. ‘I ’ave it. Yer can go ter see Mrs Daniel. She rents out rooms in her ’ouse. It’s not far from ’ere. Yer can walk it easy. I’ll write down the address for yer. Tell her Rosie from the Mucky Duck sent yer. Yer’ll be safe there. She’s a bit of a gruff ’un, Mrs Daniel is, but kindly enough.’
‘How much will a room cost?’ Emma asked quietly.
Rosie looked at her sharply. ‘Don’t yer have much brass, luv?’ she probed but not without sympathy. The girl looked visibly troubled again and her consternation at not finding Blackie had been more than apparent. What’s that young boyo been up ter? Rosie wondered, staring at Emma. Yet the girl had said she was married. Still, there’s more ter this than meets the eye, decided the shrewd Rosie.
Emma was conscious of Rosie’s scrutiny. She cleared her throat and adopted a calm expression, ‘Oh, yes, I do have a few pounds,’ she said confidently, quite unconsciously tightening her grip on the bag, which had not left her hands since she had departed from Fairley early that morning. It contained every penny she had and her few bits of jewellery.
Rosie flashed Emma a reassuring smile. ‘Well, then, that’s not so bad, is it! And Mrs Daniel is fair and square like. She won’t sting yer. I expects she’ll charge yer a few shillings a week for a room, that’s all. I don’t thinks she gives yer any grub for that. But yer can buy yer own. There’s a fish-and-chip shop at the end of her street, and there’s allus a man with a cart selling pies and peas and roamin’ around by her.’
‘I’ll manage,’ said Emma, swallowing hard again. The mere thought of food nauseated her these days. The sickness she was now experiencing every morning seemed to last all day sometimes. She said, ‘I’m grateful, Rosie, for your help. Really I am. And I’m sure Mrs Daniel’s room will be fine.’
‘Aye, it will, luv. And she’s clean and honest. Look, sit and rest yerself. I’ll go ter the back parlour and get a bit of paper and write down Mrs Daniel’s address for yer.’ Rosie paused and added, ‘Yer a stranger in Leeds, aren’t yer, Emma?’
‘Yes, I am, Rosie.’
‘Then I’ll put it all down for yer. How ter get there like. I’ll only be a tick.’
‘Thank you, Rosie, you are kind.’
Rosie bustled off to the parlour, numerous thoughts running through her head. She was much taken with this girl who had appeared from nowhere. In point of fact, she was intrigued by her. Emma Harte had such—Rosie paused in the middle of the parlour, seeking the appropriate word to describe Emma. Dignity! Yes, that was it. She was good-looking, too. That face! thought Rosie with not a little wonder. Why, she had never seen so striking a face in all her life before. She was a beauty, really, even if it was a different sort of beauty. Uncommon like.
‘This is no ordinary girl, or a lass from the working class. And that’s a certainty!’ Rosie announced aloud to the empty room. Rosie Miller, who considered herself to be a sound judge of people, since she came into contact with all types and classes in the pub, knew she could never be deceived by anybody. Aye, she’s a real lady, Rosie decided. There was the way Emma spoke, for instance. No dialect or local slang in her speech and only the faintest hint of a Yorkshire accent in her cultured voice. Not only that, there was her bearing and fine manners. Breeding, said Rosie knowingly. And her clothes, thought the barmaid, as she searched for a piece of paper and a pencil. Well, the black dress was a bit old-fashioned, Rosie had to admit, but it was made of good stuff and was elegantly cut. And the cream bonnet was definitely real Leghorn straw and the flowers trimming it were of pure silk. Rosie knew things about clothes. She did indeed, and she had only ever seen Quality ladies wearing a bonnet like that one. London town it was. And what about the crocheted gloves and the smart leather bag with its tortoiseshell frame? Those were certainly the possessions of a proper lady, as were the amber beads. Rosie considered the suitcase she had observed on the floor. Costly, it was, and made of real leather. Yes, she’s gentry all right, Rosie concluded. She licked the pencil and began to carefully print Mrs Daniel’s address. As Rosie wrote she became further intrigued, considering that this Emma Harte had come seeking out Blackie O’Neill, the Irish navvy. He was a handsome hunk of a man, no doubt about that. Still, he was a common labourer. Now what can the connection between them be? Rosie asked herself, mystified.
‘ ’Ere I am,’ exclaimed Rosie, sailing up behind the bar. She looks ever so sad, thought Rosie, glancing at Emma. Emma jumped. She had been lost in her thoughts. ‘This is the address, and I’ve wrote down the directions as ter how yer get ter Mrs Daniel’s ’
ouse,’ Rosie went on, handing the paper to Emma.
‘Thank you, Rosie.’ Emma read the paper. The directions were quite clear.
Rosie leaned over the bar, adopting a more confidential air. ‘I said afore, I don’t want ter seem like a Nosy Parker, but yer still seem upset, luv. Can I help yer in any other way? Blackie’s been a right good friend ter me. I’d like ter repay his kindness by helping a friend of his, ’specially a friend in need, so ter speak.’
Emma remained silent. She had no intention of confiding her real troubles in Rosie; on the other hand, she was a kindhearted woman and was evidently a native of Leeds. It occurred to Emma se might be able to offer some advice on another matter. Emma turned her eyes on Rosie. ‘Yes, I do have one other problem. I have to find a job,’ Emma explained.
‘Ooh, luv, I don’t know where a fine young lady like thee could get work in Leeds.’ Rosie leaned closer and dropped her voice and she could not resist asking, ‘Where’s yer husband, luv?’
Emma was not caught unawares. She had prepared herself for this obvious question during Rosie’s absence, since she had told her she was married. ‘He’s in the Royal Navy. At the moment he’s on Mediterranean duty. For the next six months.’ This was said so coolly, with such sureness and confidence Rosie believed her.
‘And don’t yer have any other family, then?’
‘No, I don’t,’ Emma lied.
‘But where were yer living afore?’ Rosie questioned, keen eyes peering.
Fully conscious of Rosie’s growing interest in her, Emma said, ‘With his grandmother. Near Ripon. My husband is an orphan, as I am. His grandmother died recently and now I am alone, since Winston is away at sea. That is, I’m alone until he comes home on leave.’ Although she had embarked upon a pack of lies, unintentionally and somewhat to her chagrin, Emma was endeavouring to stick to the truth as much as possible. It was simpler and, more importantly, easier to remember in the future.
‘I see,’ said Rosie, nodding. ‘And how did yer meet Blackie, then?’ She was no longer able to control her avid curiosity.
A Woman of Substance Page 45