In her diligent way she persevered, for she was determined that nothing was going to get the better of her; she also knew she had no alternative but to prove herself a competent weaver in order to earn a living. With her singlemindedness, her fast mind and nimble fingers, she mastered the craft of weaving within the month, as Laura had predicted she would. Her self-confidence grew as her expertise increased, yet she still disliked working in that cheerless and rigidly controlled environment.
She and Laura started at six o’clock in the morning and finished at six at night, interminable and dreary days to Emma. As the weeks dragged on she grew heavier with child and increasingly weary and exhausted. To her dismay, her legs continually swelled up from standing long hours at the loom, and she often thought that the baby would be born right there at her feet on the mill floor. However, Laura was a great comfort to her and Emma constantly marvelled at her good humour, and she never ceased to wonder what she would have done without Laura’s staunch support and her devotion.
One Tuesday evening, towards the end of March, Emma knew the baby was coming and Laura took her into St Mary’s Hospital at Hill Top. After ten hours in labour she gave birth to her child exactly one month to the day before her own seventeenth birthday. To Emma’s joy it was a girl.
THIRTY-ONE
Emma sat in front of the fire in the parlour of Laura’s house, staring morosely into space, her mind weighted down with a problem; a problem that pushed all else to one side. She had lived with it for the last few days, ever since the baby had been born. Now she knew it must be solved, and imminently. Emma had many imperatives, but taking precedence was her concern for her child. It was essential that she make a decision about the baby’s immediate future. She could not afford to pro-crastinate.
Emma shivered, suddenly aware of a coldness in her legs, a numbing aching in her bones. She bestirred herself heavily, not as swift of movement as usual, picked up the poker and drove it into the logs in the fireplace, angrily as if to ventilate her sense of helplessness. The logs fell apart, sputtered, and flooded the room with the brightest of lights that illuminated its shining neatness, its cosy comfort.
The light glanced across the child lying at her feet in the makeshift cot, which Laura had fashioned out of a drawer and had lined with thick blankets and downy pillows. The baby lay on her side, her fluff of silver-blonde hair shimmering in the firelight, her round pink face turned to Emma, her tiny hand curled in a miniature fist next to her delicate mouth. She slept in perfect peace. This child was hers. Part of her. How could she ever give her up? Quite unexpectedly, a fierce sense of protectiveness invaded Emma and that single-mindedness of purpose to succeed, to rise above her circumstances, was strongly reinforced. ‘I won’t let anything happen to you!’ she whispered softly but with vehemence to the sleeping child. ‘I won’t! And you’ll have the best that money can buy. I promise you that!’
Emma continued to observe her daughter, now four days old, for a few moments longer and then she turned back to the fire. No sacrifice she could ever make would be too great if it ensured the security and well-being of her baby. Eventually she picked up the flannel nightgown she was making, determined not to dwell on the future. She began to sew. One step at a time. One day at a time. Slowly. Slowly. Building as you go along. That is the only way.
As she continued to ply her perfect stitches, an aura of total dejection, abnormal for Emma, enveloped her. She knew she could not keep the baby with her, even though she longed to do so. She had to work at the mill to earn a living and there was no one available to care for the child during the day. Emma would not countenance the idea of adoption or an orphanage. There was only one other solution. Emma was not particularly happy about this alternative; however, she had come to the realization, after several sleepless nights, that she really had no choice. She turned the problem of the baby over in her mind yet again, wrestling with the advantages and disadvantages of the scheme she had concocted, diverse thoughts racing through her head as swiftly as her needle flew along the hem of the nightgown.
‘Hello! Hello! Anybody home?’
Startled, Emma looked up quickly. The door had opened to admit Blackie O’Neill. It was a brisk March day outside and the wind had whipped the rosiest of tints into his perennially tanned cheeks and ruffled his black hair into a mass of dancing curls. He had a happy-go-lucky air about him and, to Emma, he seemed considerably pleased with himself. He was carrying several packages.
‘Blackie! I didn’t expect you so soon!’ Emma exclaimed in surprise. She put down the sewing and stood up, automatically smoothing her immaculate hair.
Blackie grinned and deposited the parcels on the table. He pulled Emma to him and wrapped his huge arms around her, hugging her tightly, and with a show of great affection. ‘Well, ye be looking the picture of health and beauty after ye confinement,’ he remarked, staring at her appraisingly. Emma forced a smile, attempting to conceal her disquiet, but she said nothing. Seemingly unconscious of her dispirited mood, Blackie went on enthusiastically, ‘I brought a few presents for the bairn. Trifles ye might be liking.’ He indicated the items on the table.
‘Oh, Blackie, you’re too generous! You mustn’t spend all your money on the baby. You bought the shawl only the other week.’
‘That’s what money is for, I am thinking. To be spent.’ He shrugged out of his topcoat and went to hang it on the stand in the doorway. ‘Me and me Uncle Pat are doing better than ever. We got three important jobs this week, and we’ll be having to take on more men. Aye, success is in the air for the O’Neills.’ He turned and winked at Emma. ‘Anyway, I had a bit of a windfall yesterday, so to speak. Backed the winner at Doncaster races. That I did, mavourneen. I had a pound each way, at twenty to one, and made quite a bundle. So, this morning, I thought to meself: Since ye are a flush boyo this week, with a bit of extra money in ye pocket, Blackie O’Neill, ye must be sharing ye good fortune with Emma. And I took meself off at once to Briggate and bought a few things for me darlin’ Tinker Bell.’
‘I’m glad you won, Blackie. But shouldn’t you be saving your money so you can build that grand house you’re always talking about?’ suggested the pragmatic Emma.
Blackie was amused. He shrugged. ‘I’ll be having me Georgian house one day, Emma. And the few shillings I’ve spent today won’t be making all that much difference.’ He lowered his enormous frame and knelt on the floor next to the cot. He peeped at the baby. ‘And isn’t she the most darlin’ thing!’ He smoothed the cot blanket with infinite care. ‘A little cherub, sure and she is.’ The baby moved and opened her eyes, blinking her long silvery lashes. She gurgled and kicked her legs under the coverlet. Blackie’s eyes lit up. ‘Look, mavourneen! I do believe she be recognizing her Uncle Blackie already. Sure and she does!’
‘It seems she does. And she is a sweet baby, Blackie, and good, too. She hasn’t cried at all since I’ve been home from St Mary’s Hospital.’ Emma now glanced at the table. ‘Thank you for the presents, Blackie.’
‘Hush!’ cried Blackie, straightening up. ‘Come on, Emma. Open them. Start with this.’ He handed her the largest package. Emma sat down in the chair, and unwrapped it. ‘Why, Blackie, this is just lovely,’ she exclaimed, lifting out a pink knitted coat trimmed with pink ribbons.
Blackie beamed. ‘Here’s the bonnet and a pair of booties to match,’ he said, offering her another parcel. ‘I hope they will all be fitting her. I had to be guessing the size, since I’m not accustomed to buying things for such a wee mite.’ He looked at Emma anxiously. ‘Do you think they are all right then?’
‘They are perfect. Really perfect. Thank you, Blackie.’
‘Unwrap this. It’s the last,’ he said. ‘Not as practical as the coat and bonnet, I am thinking. But necessary, in a way. Tinker Bell has to have a few toys, ye know, mavourneen.’
Emma pulled the paper off excitedly and held up the fluffy white lamb which sported a large pink bow and a bell at its neck. ‘Oh, isn’t it sweet! And you bought a ratt
le as well.’ She shook the polished bone ring, which also had a bell attached, and then placed the lamb and the rattle in the cot next to the baby. She stood up and kissed Blackie. ‘Thank you, Blackie. You’re so good to us.’ Emma was touched by his thoughtfulness and the obvious care he had taken in selecting the clothes and the toys.
‘Aay, it’s nothing at all, me love,’ he said, and glanced around. ‘And where might Laura be?’
‘There’s a jumble sale at the Catholic church this afternoon and she’s looking after one of the stalls. She’ll be back in time for tea. You are staying, aren’t you? We expected you to.’
‘Sure and I am.’ He settled himself in the chair opposite Emma and fished around in his pocket for his cigarettes. After he had lit one he said, ‘And when do ye have to go back to the mill, mavourneen?’
Emma did not answer for a moment and then she lifted her head slowly. ‘I can please myself. The foreman told Laura I could have the whole week off, after I came out of hospital. We’re not so busy right now, and it doesn’t matter to the mill either way, since I’m paid by the piece. They don’t have to pay my wage when I’m not working.’
‘Are ye going to take next week off? I think ye should,’ Blackie remarked, eyeing her closely.
‘So does Laura. She worries about my health. But I feel very well. I do really, Blackie. I could go back on Monday but—’ Her voice trailed off and she examined the sewing, finishing thoughtfully, ‘I don’t think I will, though. I’ve things to do next week.’ Emma dropped her eyes, not elucidating further. Blackie did not want to pry, knowing this would irritate her. Emma was not always given to making confidences, and he had learned not to question her unduly.
After a moment Emma said, ‘So business is good, is it?’
‘Aye, it is, colleen! And do ye know, I am drawing up me first plans for me first house, one of me own design.’ He laughed wryly. ‘Well, it’s not a whole house, just a wing we are to build on to an existing house for a customer in Headingley. The gentleman that owns it, a real toff I might be adding, liked me ideas, and he told me to go ahead and to be making me plans. Them night-school classes in draftsmanship are going to be paying off. Ye’ll see, mavourneen.’
‘That’s wonderful, Blackie.’
This was said somewhat listlessly, and Blackie was at once aware of her closed face, her obvious lack of interest. He studied her carefully and saw the dark glint in her green eyes, the grim expression on her lips. No, not grim. Miserable, he decided. He wondered what was disturbing her, but again refrained from asking any questions. As he continued to expound about the wing of the house he was to design and build, Blackie continued to watch her out of the corner of his eye. Finally he could not prevent himself saying, ‘Why are ye looking so gloomy, me love? That’s not like ye.’ She did not respond. ‘Nay, Emma, ye’ve got a face like a wet week. What’s upsetting ye?’
‘Oh, nothing, really—’ She hesitated and then blurted out against her will. ‘I’m a bit concerned about the baby not being christened.’
Blackie was flabbergasted. He stared at her uncomprehendingly and threw back his head and roared with laughter. Emma looked hurt, but he could not help it. ‘Concerned about the baby not being christened!’ he echoed, trying to swallow the last of his merriment. ‘I can’t believe me own ears, Emma. Why should that matter to ye? After all, ye’ve been telling me for months that ye are an atheist.’
‘I am! I haven’t changed my mind about that,’ Emma cried. ‘But I don’t feel right about it. Not having her christened. The baby might believe in God when she grows up, and then she might hold it against me if she ever finds out she wasn’t baptized.’
He could see she was in real earnest and so he said, ‘Why don’t ye go to see the vicar of Christ Church and arrange—’
‘Oh, I couldn’t do that,’ Emma interjected harshly, fixing him with a cold stare. ‘The vicar would want her birth certificate, that’s customary, and he’d see straightaway that the baby is—is—illegitimate, and then he wouldn’t do it. Besides, I don’t want him, or anyone else, knowing my business.’
‘Well, Emma, if ye don’t go to Christ Church, I don’t know what ye can do. There’s no solution I can think of. Ye can’t have her christened, and that’s that!’
‘Yes, I know. I wouldn’t have mentioned it to you if you hadn’t asked me why I was gloomy. And you’re right, there’s nothing to be done. I shall just have to hope the baby isn’t angry with me one day.’
If the child’s ever angry it will be about her illegitimacy and not her baptism, or rather lack of it, Blackie thought. But he said, ‘Ye are such a contradiction, mavourneen mine. But look here, Emma, if it’s that important to ye, why don’t we take the baby to a church in another part of Leeds? One where ye are not likely to be knowing anybody, and have her christened there. Then it won’t matter about anybody seeing the birth certificate.’
‘No! No! I don’t want a soul to know she’s illegitimate,’ Emma snapped.
Suddenly an idea occurred to Blackie. A marvellous idea. ‘I’ve got it! We’ll have our own christening! Right here and now!’ He leapt up and strode purposefully to the sink in the kitchen. ‘Leeds Corporation water is as good as any for a baptism, I am thinking,’ he shouted gaily. ‘Bring me a bowl.’
‘What do you mean by “have our own christening”? I don’t understand.’ Her brow puckered into a frown.
‘Since ye are so troubled about the bairn not being baptized, I meself am going to do it. Now. Bring her over to the sink. Come on,’ he urged, standing in the kitchen doorway.
Total disbelief flickered on to Emma’s face. ‘You do it! But would it be proper? Would it be a real christening, I mean?’
‘Sure and it would. Do as I say,’ Blackie commanded. ‘I can do just as good a job as a vicar, or a priest, for that matter. Even though I am a lapsed Catholic I still believe in God, ye know. I might not be going to the church, Emma, but I never lost me faith. Never. Be sure of that. And God lives within all of us. That is my true belief. I feel Him in me heart, and that’s what’s most important. To feel His love and His presence eternally with us.’
Although Emma was astonished, she knew that he meant every word he said.
Blackie continued in a tender voice, ‘I don’t think He will be angry that I am taking matters into me own hands, in this emergency. And He will accept her as one of His blessed children, Emma. Sure and He will. His own son, Jesus, said, “Suffer little children to come unto me, and forbid them not; for of such is the kingdom of God.” Please, believe me, it’s the baptism and the spirit of love behind it that counts, and not the man that does it, or where it’s done. We need neither a church nor a font, Emma.’
‘I believe you, Blackie. I want you to christen the baby.’
‘That’s my Emma,’ said Blackie. ‘Now, pick up the baby and bring her over here.’ Blackie occupied himself at the sink, preparing the bowl of tepid water, and then he hurried across to the sideboard and pulled open a drawer, searching for a towel.
Emma now lifted the baby out of the makeshift cot and cradled her in her arms, stroking her small face and cooing to her. ‘Oh, my sweet little girl,’ Emma exclaimed, entranced with the child. Unexpectedly Edwin Fairley’s face flashed before her eyes. If only Edwin had not been so cruel. If only Edwin could see the baby now, he would love her as I do. To her horror, Emma found she could not expunge his face, or his name. She had not thought of him for weeks and then only with the most intense hatred. He had barely crossed her mind when the baby was born. Emma was so involved with these unparalleled thoughts of Edwin Fairley that she became distracted and her guard was lowered.
Blackie was calling from the other side of the room, ‘And what will ye be calling Tinker Bell, then? Have ye thought of a name?’
So preoccupied was Emma, she did not think twice. Edwin’s name was on the tip of her tongue and she said automatically, thoughtlessly, ‘Edwina—’ As that name fell from her lips Emma froze by the sink, so aghast was she at h
er own carelessness. What made me say that name? she wondered, furious with herself. She had never had intention calling the baby after Edwin. She had decided to name the baby Laura weeks ago. Emma felt as if the blood was draining out of her.
Blackie’s jaw had dropped open and he was staring at her back. He could see that she held herself tensely and her shoulder blades were protruding through the thin silk of the white blouse she was wearing. He repeated the name Edwina to himself and then, without having to give it a second thought, he knew who the father of her child was. Edwin Fairley. There was no doubt in his mind about that. Everything fell neatly into place. Why had he not thought of Edwin before? It was so obvious. And he had been suspicious of her story for months, convinced that the fastidious Emma would not have entangled herself with a village yokel. Blackie’s heart ached for Emma and he longed to console her. But he held himself in check. Although her face was turned away from him, Blackie was now acutely conscious of her embarrassment and he guessed that she had just made a dreadful slip of the tongue. He was positive she had never meant to call the child Edwina. Why would she so blatantly spell it out for him? No, the canny Emma would never do that. It had been a mistake she could not now gracefully correct.
And so Blackie adopted an unconcerned tone and said, with a show of gaiety, ‘And where did ye find such an elegant name, mavourneen? In one of them illustrated magazines, I am thinking. Sure and it is real fancy, but very fitting for me darlin’ Tinker Bell. I like it. Sure and I do.’
Emma nodded, not trusting herself to speak. Blackie fussed with the towel, draping it over his arm, and then he tested the water, taking his time so that she could regain her composure. ‘Now then, I’m ready,’ he said with a bright smile. ‘Hold the babe forward, Emma…Yes, that’s right. Good, mavourneen.’
A Woman of Substance Page 54