A Woman of Substance

by Barbara Taylor Bradford

  Somewhat recovered, Emma said, ‘Her full name is to be Ed—Edwina.’ She almost faltered, then swallowed and went on more steadily, ‘Laura Shane—’

  ‘Shane!’ interrupted Blackie, his surprise evident.

  ‘Yes, after you. I can’t very well call her Desmond or Patrick, and Blackie would seem odd, now wouldn’t it?’

  Blackie chuckled. ‘True! True! Well, ‘tis flattered that I am and right pleased, Emma. So, let’s commence.’ He dipped his fingers in the bowl of water with a flourish and made the sign of the cross on the baby’s forehead.

  ‘Wait a minute,’ Emma exclaimed, her eyes stretching widely. ‘I’m not a Roman Catholic and neither is the baby. In the Church of England the vicar just sprinkles the water on in drips. He doesn’t make a cross. We must do it properly. Start again, please.’

  Blackie bit back a smile. For a so-called atheist she was being mighty particular. ‘Sure and I understand, Emma.’ He wiped the cross off the baby’s brow with the towel and resumed. Once again he dipped his large brown fingers in the water and ceremoniously sprinkled a few drops on the child, who stared up at him unblinkingly.

  ‘I christen thee Edwina Laura Shane Harte. In the name of God the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost.’ Blackie crossed himself and then he bent down and kissed the baby. He smiled at Emma, and kissed her, too. ‘There ye are, mavourneen. The baby is christened. Does that make ye feel happier?’

  ‘Yes, Blackie. Thank you. It was beautiful. And just look at the baby. She’s smiling again and she didn’t even cry when you dropped the water on her. I’m going to make sure she has a good life. The best of everything, Blackie.’ She turned her face to his and her gaze was solemn. ‘She’ll have the most beautiful clothes and go to the best schools and she’ll be a real lady. I’m going to make sure of that. Nothing is going to stop me.’ The serious expression eased into a tender smile. ‘I wonder what she’ll look like when she’s older, Blackie. What do you think?’

  A Fairley, that’s a certainty, Blackie mused, regarding the child objectively. The signs were already there, as young as she was. He said, ‘She’ll be lovely, Emma. Aye, she will indeed. But put her back in the cot, and get out Laura’s bottle of port wine. I think the least we can do is to be drinking a toast to the baby.’

  ‘Oh, Blackie, do you think that’s all right? Laura might be annoyed if we dip into her—’

  ‘Don’t be silly, Emma,’ Blackie cried through his laughter. ‘She won’t care. And anyway, I’ll go out later to the offlicence and buy another bottle. We have to be toasting Edwina, ye know. It’s the custom.’

  Emma nodded and did as he asked. They toasted the baby with the ruby port, which Emma had poured into two small glasses. ‘May she be healthy, wealthy, and wise,’ pronounced Blackie, taking a sip, ‘and I won’t be adding beautiful, for we know she’ll be taking after her mother!’

  Emma smiled at him with great fondness, and they sat down in front of the fire, drinking the wine, lost in their own thoughts. After a short while Emma said, ‘We can’t tell Laura about the christening. She wouldn’t approve. She wouldn’t think it proper. She’d also wonder why I didn’t go to the church.’

  Blackie nodded and frowned. ‘Aye, ye are right about that. Still, what are ye going to be telling her, Emma? After all, she doesn’t know the truth. She’ll be thinking it funny if ye don’t have the bairn baptized.’

  ‘I’ll tell her I’m having it done in Ripon,’ said Emma, recognizing as she spoke that she had finally made her decision about the baby’s immediate future.

  ‘Ripon! Why there?’ Blackie threw her a curious glance.

  Emma looked at him carefully, cleared her throat, and said softly, ‘Because that’s where I’m going next week with the baby. I’m taking her to my cousin Freda’s.’ Blackie seemed baffled and Emma explained quickly. ‘She will live there with my cousin. You know I can’t keep the baby with me when I have to work. You said that yourself months ago.’

  Blackie’s eyes narrowed. ‘Have ye been in touch with ye cousin, then? Has she agreed to take Edwina in?’

  ‘No. I was afraid to write, in case she turned me down. But if I arrive there with the baby I know she won’t do that,’ Emma said, speaking in the most assured voice she could summon. ‘Freda’s a good woman, Blackie, and she was very close to my mother, even though she is much younger. She’s a motherly sort and she loves children. She has two little ones of her own. I just know she won’t refuse me when she sees the baby. And I shall pay her for looking after Edwina.’

  Blackie sighed. ‘Aye, I see the practical side of the idea, but won’t ye be missing the child, Emma?’

  ‘Oh yes, I will, Blackie. I will! But as soon as I’m on my feet, I shall bring Edwina back to live with me. In the meantime, I shall go to see her once or twice a month.’

  Blackie shook his head, looking sorrowful, and his Celtic soul ached that she had to be separated from her child. But he said cheerfully, ‘And when do ye intend to be going to Ripon?’

  Emma bit her lip. ‘I shall take the baby over there next week, before I go back to work. On Thursday. I’ll stay with Freda that night and all day on Friday, to be with the baby a bit longer.’ She saw the dismay on his face and cried, ‘I have to do it! I have no choice!’ Tears were imminent and her voice shook.

  ‘I know, Emma, I know. Don’t be getting yeself upset,’ Blackie responded sympathetically. He leaned forward and squeezed her arm. ‘It’s the wisest course under the circumstances.’

  ‘At least she will be with a member of my family and she’ll be in the fresh country air,’ Emma pointed out firmly, as if to convince herself, as well as Blackie, of the wisdom of her decision.

  Blackie said, ‘But what about ye dad? Won’t ye cousin be telling him about the baby?’

  ‘No, she won’t, if I ask her not to,’ Emma countered in a confident tone, hoping she was right. ‘She knows what he’s like, and she’ll protect me for my mother’s sake. They were like sisters.’ Emma looked him right in the eye and went on, ‘I shall tell her the whole truth, Blackie, about the boy from the village letting me down and running off to the navy. I’ll have to.’

  ‘Aye, I expect ye will,’ remarked Blackie, now convinced that the truth had been slightly bent. Then another thought struck him forcibly, and he reflected for a minute, before saying, ‘Emma, ye mentioned the birth certificate before. Ye will have to go and register the bairn’s birth with the registrar in Leeds, to get the certificate. And ye’ll have to give the father’s name. It’s the law.’

  Emma’s face darkened with distress. She had already thought of this herself and it bothered her not a little. She held herself very still, not answering.

  ‘I can guess what ye are thinking, mavourneen. When the registrar asks ye for the name, ye are going to say “father unknown”, are ye not?’

  ‘Yes,’ she acknowledged softly.

  ‘Aye, I knew it. Well, I think ye should be putting me down as the father,’ he said emphatically.

  Emma was thunderstruck. ‘Oh, Blackie, I can’t! I won’t! Why should you have that responsibility?’

  His piercing stare was unwavering. ‘Do ye want to give the name of the real father, Emma?’ he asked pointedly.

  ‘No!’ she exclaimed, her eyes flaring.

  ‘Well, then, wouldn’t it be better to have my name on the certificate? The paper will still show that she’s illegitimate, I realize that. But at least a name, such as it is, would look better than “father unknown”. Think on that one, mavourneen.’

  ‘But, Blackie—’

  He held up his hand to silence her and there was a reproving look on his face. ‘Do ye know how often ye say “But, Blackie”? Always disagreeing with me, ye are. It’s settled,’ he announced in a voice that forbade argument. ‘And I shall come with ye to the registrar’s office, just to make sure ye be doing as I say.’ He stretched out his hand and patted her arm again. ‘Ye’ll see, it will be fine, Emma. And I am happy to take the responsibility, as ye cal
l it, for Tinker Bell.’ He grinned crookedly. ‘I mean Edwina Laura Shane. Me darlin’ godchild, so to speak.’

  Emma’s eyes filled up. She fumbled for her handkerchief and blew her nose, striving to curb her emotions. ‘You’re so good, Blackie. I don’t know why you do so much for me.’

  ‘Because I care about ye, Emma, and the wee one. Somebody’s got to look out for ye both in this hard world, I am thinking,’ he remarked softly, his affection reflected in his bright black eyes.

  ‘You might regret it later. I mean, regret putting your name on the birth certificate.’

  Blackie laughed dismissively. ‘I never regret anything I be doing, mavourneen mine. I’ve found regrets to be a sinful waste of time.’

  A brief smile touched Emma’s lips. She knew it was fruitless to attempt to dissuade him once his mind was made up. He, too, could be very stubborn. She stared into the fire reflectively. ‘I must keep the birth certificate in a safe place. Locked up. Laura must never see it,’ she said. Her voice was so quiet it was almost inaudible.

  Blackie was not certain he had heard correctly. He leaned forward and asked, ‘What was that?’

  She gave him the benefit of a long knowing look. ‘I said, Laura must never see the birth certificate. Because your name will be on it.’

  ‘I don’t care about that,’ exclaimed Blackie. ‘But she shouldn’t see it, for the simple reason that she’d know then ye are single, and that the babe’s illegitimate. Did I not tell Laura ye were married to a sailor called Winston Harte? Pack of lies I told that poor girl. Ye are forgetting things, Emma.’ He sighed heavily. ‘That’s the trouble with lying.’

  Emma flushed. ‘They were only white lies. I told them for the baby’s sake, and you agreed all along that I was right,’ she retorted fiercely. ‘And I’m not forgetting anything. I was only thinking that I must protect you. And I don’t want Laura to be hurt. She would be, if she saw your name on the birth certificate. She might believe you really were the father.’

  ‘So what?’ Blackie demanded, further bewildered.

  ‘Laura loves you, Blackie.’

  ‘Loves me! Laura! That’s a lot of cod’s wallop, mavourneen.’ He burst out laughing and shook his head disbelievingly. ‘Hell could freeze over before Laura would look at me twice. I don’t have to tell ye that she’s a staunch Roman Catholic, and devout, and she knows I’m lapsed. Come on, Emma. That’s a daft idea. Loves me, indeed! On the heads of the Blessed Saints I do swear ye have lost ye mind.’

  Emma threw him a fond but impatient look. ‘You are a great fool, Blackie O’Neill. You can’t see what’s staring you in the face. Of course she loves you. Very much.’

  ‘Did she tell ye that?’ he cried, his glance quizzical.

  ‘No, she didn’t. But I know she does.’ Observing his sceptical expression, Emma added vehemently, ‘I just know, deep down inside, that she does!’

  Blackie could not help laughing again. ‘Ye are very imaginative, Emma. Sure and ye are. I don’t believe it at all, at all.’

  Emma shrugged resignedly. ‘You don’t have to, but it’s true,’ she asserted strongly. ‘I can tell by the way she looks at you, and talks about you sometimes. I bet if you asked her, she’d marry you.’

  Blackie was stunned. A peculiar look settled on his face, one Emma could not read. Emma said hurriedly, ‘You mustn’t tell her I’ve said anything, though. She’d be upset if she thought we’d been talking about her, behind her back. And anyway, she’s never actually told me she loves you. That’s just my opinion.’

  Still Blackie did not answer. Emma rose and went over to him. She touched his massive shoulder lightly and he looked up at her, his eyes suddenly twinkling. ‘Promise me you won’t mention it to Laura, Blackie. Please.’

  ‘I promise I won’t mention it to a living breathing soul,’ he said, patting the small hand resting on his shoulder. Satisfied that he would keep his word, Emma nodded and glided into the kitchen. ‘I’ve got to start preparing things for tea,’ she called over her shoulder.

  ‘Aye, mavourneen,’ he said, and threw another log on the fire. Blackie settled comfortably in the wing chair and lit a cigarette, chuckling to himself from time to time, vastly amused at Emma’s words and not at all convinced of their veracity. ’Tis romantic girlish notions Emma is harbouring, he thought, and drew deeply on his Woodbine. Nonetheless, he discovered she had given him something disturbing to think about. He sat dwelling on the possibility of Laura loving him; an idea that previously had never entered his mind and one so staggering he was shaken. Slowly, numerous things Laura had said and done in the past few years came back to him with vividness; things he had considered irrelevant but which now assumed significance in the light of Emma’s comments. Was Emma correct in her conjectures about Laura’s involvement with him? For the life of him he did not know. Yet Emma was nobody’s fool. She was perceptive and, in fact, he had often been startled at her insight into people. Bemused, he ruminated on Laura Spencer and he discovered he found it quite difficult to gauge the depth and extent of his own feelings for her. Oh, he loved her. There was no doubt about that. It was virtually impossible not to love that gentle and tenderhearted girl. But how did he love her? Was he in love with her? Did he want her for his wife, as the mother of his children? Did he want to share the rest of his life, and his bed, with her? Was it she who was the object of his masculine desire and passion? He shook his head, nonplussed, unable to isolate and understand his true feelings for Laura. And what about Emma? He loved her, too. He had always believed this had been merely a fraternal interest; now he wondered if he had unconsciously deluded himself. He remembered the night in the Mucky Duck when he had asked her to marry him, out of a sense of protectiveness; yet that night he had seen that she was a highly alluring young woman. Blackie found he was jolted into annoyance with himself. Could it be, was it conceivable, that he actually loved Emma in the way a virile man loves a woman, with all his heart and his very soul? He strove to examine, with objectivity, his emotional involvement with both girls, only to find that he was even more perplexed and confused than ever, on the horns of a dilemma. How can a man love two women at the same time? he asked himself with mounting irritation. He ran his hand through his hair distractedly. This is a fine kettle of fish, Blackie O’Neill, he said to himself. The gaze in his black and brilliant eyes was inward and contemplative, as he endeavoured to answer these disquieting questions which Emma’s conversation had posed. But the answers eluded him maddeningly, and they would continue to do so for some considerable length of time.

  THIRTY-TWO

  The main street of Fairley village was deserted, it being two o’clock on Sunday afternoon. It was a cool April day and, as was normal at this time of year, the sky was heavy with cinereous clouds that rolled in a gathering mass along the crest of those black implacable moors which stretched in eerie silence towards the smudged horizon. The watery sun had retreated hours ago and the village looked inhospitable, the grey stone walls and slate rooftops of the cottages fusing into the forbidding semi-industrial landscape, an unrelieved etching of monotones beneath that sullen metallic sky. The wind blowing in from the nearby limestone dale country was tinged with North Sea rain and a shower was imminent. It had already poured earlier, and the roofs and cobblestones held a silvery sheen that was glassy and stark in the dismal environment.

  To Emma, climbing the steep hill, the village appeared smaller than she remembered, oddly diminished, but she had broader comparisons to draw upon now, and she recognized that her eyes had become accustomed to the imposing buildings of Leeds, the fine establishments of Armley. The depressing aspects of her surroundings were dimmed, became irrelevant, for she was filled with happiness. She smiled to herself. She was looking forward to seeing her father and Frank, and this reunion, so yearningly longed for, was uppermost in her thoughts, as it had been for days. They did not know she was coming today; she had not written to announce her impending visit, wanting to give them a lovely surprise. Her anticipation was fu
lly revealed on her eager and shining face. Frank must have grown in the past ten months, she thought. She wondered how they would look, little Frank, now thirteen, and her father. She herself had taken great pains with her appearance, before setting out that morning, determined to look her very best. This was partially prompted by her sense of pride, but also to prove to her father that she had been successful out on her own in the world. She was wearing the red silk dress and the black wool coat which had formerly belonged to Olivia Wainright, and new black button boots purchased only last week. The shopping bag she carried contained thoughtfully selected presents: socks, a shirt, and a tie for her dad, plus his favourite pipe tobacco; socks, a shirt, and writing materials for Frank, along with an edition of David Copperfield. And, carefully placed on top of these things there was a bunch of spring flowers for her mother’s grave. She had dipped into her precious savings to buy everything, but she had done so joyfully and with love; and in her black reticule there were three crisp pound notes for her father, to help with the family expenses.

  The hill was steep, but Emma climbed it easily. There was a decided bounce to her step and she felt wonderfully alive. Optimistic as she was by nature, Emma was now inordinately confident of the future.

  The baby was comfortably settled with her cousin Freda in Ripon. As Emma had predicted to Blackie, Freda had been more than willing to take Edwina in, and for as long as Emma wished. If she had been surprised at Emma’s unexpected arrival on her doorstep, or shocked at her story, the loving and compassionate Freda had not betrayed this at all. She had taken everything in her stride. Her welcome had been genuine and she had fussed over Emma and commented ecstatically on Edwina’s prettiness and her docile temper. She had promised to care for the child as if she were her own, and had faithfully pledged to keep Emma’s circumstances a secret from Jack Harte, with whom she was not on very good terms, and whom, she explained, she had not heard from since Elizabeth’s death in 1904. When Emma had left Ripon to return to Armley she was in a calmer frame of mind and, although she was saddened to leave the child, her confidence in Freda, who was so like her mother, had helped to assuage her wistfulness considerably. She knew Edwina was in capable hands, and that she would be looked after and cherished with complete devotion.