Emma and Her Daughter

by Linda Mitchelmore

  Chapter Two

  ‘Exe Motors,’ Matthew Caunter said, snatching at the telephone. The thing had rung at exactly the same moment a potential customer had walked onto the forecourt. And he couldn’t see his mechanic, William, anywhere. Sloped off down the canal for a ciggy, no doubt, seeing as smoking was forbidden anywhere around engines, and oil, and petrol.

  He glanced at himself in the mirror propped on the windowsill beside his desk, put there so he could give his hair the once-over and check for oily smudges – a necessary evil given his business. Grimacing, he ran a hand through his hair – once red-gold but now faded somewhat, and rapidly so now he was in his mid-forties. An ex-lover had, ingloriously, likened it to the rust on a tin bucket left out in all weathers. Yes, well, she hadn’t lasted long and he wasn’t proud of the fact he’d only wined and dined her a few times to fulfil a need he’d known she’d furnish.

  ‘Good afternoon,’ he barked.

  God, but you can be a miserable bastard at times, he thought. It wouldn’t have surprised him if the caller had slammed down the telephone. Some days he wouldn’t have wanted to speak to himself either.

  ‘Gosh, you do sound cross,’ the voice on the end of the line said, but with humour. ‘Am I calling at a bad time?’

  ‘Ah, Stella. It’s you,’ Matthew said, his mood lifting and his face breaking into a smile at the sound of her voice. He’d been seeing Stella Martin for six months now. Growing closer to her each time he saw her. Stella was tall and slender with the fairest hair he’d ever seen that hadn’t been enhanced with peroxide. Not quite as tall as Matthew was, but tall enough that he didn’t get instant neck ache when he kissed her. And she was funny, and fun to be with. And not – usually – demanding. Being a nurse she understood that work often had to come before pleasure. And he and Stella had shared a fair bit of pleasure together of late although – unusually for him – he was taking things slowly, not rushing Stella into bed. What he felt for Stella was deeper than mere lust. And he hadn’t expected to ever have those sort of feelings for someone again – not after he’d practically forced Emma Jago to walk out of his life – but now he had. ‘Where are you?’

  ‘At the hospital. Just finished my shift. I know it’s late, but it’s been a pig of a day. Two sudden deaths, a new mother off her head with grief, poor woman, after a stillbirth. Oh, and a whiskery old wino wanting to kiss me.’

  ‘Did you let him?’

  How could anyone not want to kiss Stella’s pretty little Cupid’s bow lips?

  ‘What do you think?’ Stella laughed. ‘No. Matron was walking past at the time and she soon frog-marched him out of reception. So … I’m wondering if I could see you?’

  ‘Now?’

  ‘Well, as soon as the train will get me there. If you’re free, that is?’

  ‘I can make myself free,’ Matthew said. ‘William’s itching to be left in charge, so I’ll let him for once.’

  ‘Good. With luck, if I run, I’ll catch the 4.15.’

  ‘Then run.’ Matthew laughed. ‘Look, sorry, got to go. A potential customer’s just come in and …’ Ah, thank goodness. William was back and engaging the man in conversation. ‘I’ll bring the Clyno to St Thomas station to meet you.’

  And who knows, with luck maybe you’ll stop the night and save me the drive back to Torquay, he thought. But then again he was playing it softly, softly with Stella. He didn’t want to rush her because Stella might – just might – be the one to make him consider walking down the aisle for a second time.

  The White Horse was packed with diners. A trio was playing a slow jazz number discreetly on a dais at the far end of the room and Stella, sitting opposite Matthew at a small, round table, was tapping her foot to the rhythm – the movement of it making ripples of air flutter up Matthew’s trouser leg. And she was nodding her head to a slightly different rhythm – slower, as though she was thinking.

  ‘Penny for them?’ Matthew asked, just as the waiter placed a plate of poached chicken in front of Stella and a steak and kidney pudding in front of him, in one deft movement.

  Stella downed what was left of her glass of wine, swallowed. ‘Sorry. Distracted. I can’t get that poor mother out of my head, and goodness only knows I should be used to that sort of thing by now. But it was the way she was bundled out of maternity and rushed to women’s surgical the second her baby died, as though she might bring bad luck to everyone else waiting to give birth.’ Stella jiggled her shoulders at the discomfiting thought.

  ‘Could you try?’ Matthew said. ‘To forget her for a moment. You can’t carry the troubles of the world on your shoulders, you know.’

  ‘I know. Sorry. I’ll eat up like a good girl. Well, woman …’ Stella’s voice drifted away as she cut, very elegantly, a sliver of chicken and popped it into her mouth.

  Everything about Stella was elegant. Matthew couldn’t imagine her doing the job she did – all the bodily functions of the ill and infirm she dealt with every day. The blood, the gore, and the smells.

  Matthew re-filled Stella’s glass with Sancerre. Filled it to the brim. He had lashings of respect for what she did and the dignity with which she did it. He forked up a mouthful of steak and kidney pudding, the fatty smell of the suet pastry filling his nostrils – a not terribly pleasant aroma, although this hotel was known for its excellent cuisine. Certainly the pastry wasn’t up to the standards Emma Jago had cooked up for him way back in 1909. Or Emma Le Goff as she’d been then.

  And just why was she in his mind at this moment? Not that she was ever far from it, if he were honest with himself. Matthew prided himself on his honesty and so far he and Stella had been nothing less than totally honest in their answers to personal questions, although he’d purposely omitted to mention Emma and her place in his life. And Stella, who’d moved to Torquay from Bristol just three years previously, wouldn’t know of Emma, and therefore wouldn’t ask.

  Matthew had learnt that Stella had been engaged to marry once but had called off the engagement because she knew in her heart that she wanted to nurse, and she wouldn’t have been able to marry and nurse, the two together being against hospital rules. For his part, Matthew had told her about his marriage to Annie, and their son, Harry, who was now seventeen years old. And how Annie had left him for another woman. He had, he told her with total honesty, bedded a dozen or so women in the years since his divorce. Stella hadn’t even raised an eyebrow at that. All she’d said was, ‘Of course. You’re a man.’

  ‘Penny for them yourself, Matthew,’ Stella said, wiping her mouth on the edge of the linen napkin.

  Oh, some of those thoughts were worth far, far more than that! The ones of Emma and Harry, if not those of Annie.

  ‘Ah, here’s the waiter. Dessert, Stella?’

  ‘A sorbet if they have it, please. Lemon would be good,’ Stella said. She patted her pancake flat stomach, product of all the walking about she did at the hospital, up and down stairs all day long, walking the lengths of very long wards.

  The waiter cleared their plates and Matthew requested a lemon sorbet for Stella and an apple crumble for himself.

  ‘So,’ Matthew said, as they waited for their desserts to arrive. ‘Was there anything in particular you wanted to see me about today that warrants a run to the station after a long day’s work?’

  He said it as kindly as he could, but still the words came out as some sort of accusation – as though he had given up valuable time to be with Stella and that wasn’t the case at all. But he’d never seen her so pensive, so withdrawn.

  ‘Yes,’ Stella said. ‘This isn’t going to be easy to say, Matthew, but I need to know where I stand. With you. In the long term. Whether marriage is on the cards for us, or not. I like you very much, Matthew. No, more than like … I’m falling in love with you. We’ve been seeing one another regularly for six months now and I know enough about human nature to know how you feel about me, too. I’m not wrong, am I, in thinking you care for me rather more than the dozen or so lovers you’ve had? Am
I making this clear enough?’

  Stella’s gaze held Matthew’s and he thought – for a second – he could see the startled look he knew he had on his face reflected in her eyes.

  ‘Perfectly clear.’

  ‘Sorry. It blurted out quicker than I meant it to,’ Stella said. Still she held his gaze.

  ‘Is this a proposal?’ Matthew quipped – wrong-footed as he might have been, he was used to thinking on his feet, or had been when he’d been a customs officer and then a private detective, and he rallied fast.

  ‘It could be,’ Stella said, smiling warmly at him. ‘Since John, well, I’ve never found anyone I wanted to settle down with until I met you. Or anyone I’d consider giving up my career in nursing to marry. As it doesn’t look as though I’ll ever be promoted to ward sister, now seems a good time.’

  A good time to what? Was he reading this correctly? Was Stella saying he was the next best option seeing as she’d gone as far in nursing as she could go?

  ‘And there was me thinking you’d fallen for my handsome chops and my charismatic aura,’ Matthew said.

  Mercifully the waiter arrived with their desserts, putting a halt to this rather unsettling conversation. Matthew had never been proposed to before, and while he found it faintly amusing, he wasn’t sure he liked it much.

  ‘Anything else, sir? Madam?’ the waiter asked.

  ‘A brandy,’ Matthew said – he was definitely going to need a brandy. Yes, he liked Stella, liked her very much. But marriage? So soon? Was he ready for that? ‘Make it a double. Neat. Stella? Sweet white wine?’

  ‘Nothing else for me, thank you,’ Stella said.

  She attacked her sorbet with a long-handled spoon, sucking in her cheeks with the tartness of it as she slipped a spoonful into her mouth. She licked her top lip and the action made something stir in Matthew’s loins. Hmm, perhaps marriage with Stella wouldn’t be such a bad idea.

  ‘Actually,’ Stella said, ‘can I change my mind? This is rather sharp. A sweet white wine would be lovely.’

  ‘Of course,’ the waiter said, and left to get their drinks.

  ‘We have to face facts, Matthew. Neither of us is getting any younger. Before we know it we could be facing a lonely old age.’

  ‘Hey! I’ve had better compliments.’ Matthew laughed.

  And I can still do the necessary required of a husband, thank you very much.

  ‘Sorry,’ Stella said. ‘My mouth got ahead of my brain there. It’s not how I usually do things but, well—’

  ‘Can we sleep on it?’ Matthew interrupted, tilting his head to one side. Let Stella work out what he meant by that.

  ‘We can,’ Stella said. ‘But separately tonight.’ She leaned across the table, and indicated for Matthew to lean forward. ‘I’m … how shall I put it? … inexperienced,’ she mouthed at him.

  ‘Then you’ve come to the right man,’ Matthew said. ‘I’ll be happy to increase your knowledge.’

  ‘But not just yet.’ Stella laughed. ‘Ah, our drinks have arrived.’

  Matthew took his brandy and knocked it back in one go. He had a lot of thinking to do. Stella was right, neither of them was getting any younger, not that he felt any older than, oh, twenty-seven, in his mind. He’d been twenty-seven years old when he’d first met Emma. Was he likely to ever see her again? He had her amethyst necklace for safe keeping but it looked as though time was running out for any sort of reunion with Emma. And sitting in front of him, asking him to marry her, was the very delectable Stella.

  ‘Oh, Matthew, you should see your face! I’ve shocked you, haven’t I? But this is 1927 and women are starting to take the lead. We’ll get the vote soon, I’m sure of it. And besides, I’m used to making instant appraisals of people in my job and making decisions, and I knew the second I saw you that you were a very special sort of man indeed. So, will you? Marry me?’

  Chapter Three

  LATE APRIL 1927

  ‘Ma,’ Fleur wailed. ‘My feet hurt. How many more houses are we going to have to traipse around?’

  Emma considered reminding Fleur that she was sitting on the number twelve tram, bowling along Torquay promenade in front of Torre Abbey, and that she’d been sitting there for the past fifteen minutes since they’d left Paignton. But perhaps not. Fleur had been in a funny mood all morning, barely answering Emma’s questions, slouching from room to room in each of the three houses they’d looked over, her arms folded across her chest.

  ‘None today. I think I like that last one, Romer Lodge, the best of all we’ve seen.’

  ‘Well, why didn’t you say when we were there?’

  ‘Because it never does to show too much interest right away. Seth taught me that. We’d never have got Mapletop Ridge at the price we did if he’d said “yes” he wanted it, the second he saw it. He got it at a good price for his patience and I hope to get Romer Lodge at a lower rental than they’re asking. Ah, here’s our stop.’ Emma sprang to her feet. ‘Come on, Fleur, for goodness sake. You …’ Emma stopped herself from chivvying Fleur up. All this was strange to the girl, wasn’t it? A new life in a new country without her pa and with new friends to be made at some stage.

  The tram rattled to a halt and Emma and Fleur got off.

  ‘But why have we got off here?’ Fleur said, turning to look in the direction the tram had come from and pointing. ‘The Grand Hotel’s back there!’

  ‘I know it is. But I thought we could find a draper’s shop and get some material to make you a dress. Or two. The weather will be warming up soon and what was suitable in Vancouver won’t be quite right for here. But, if you’re feet hurt …’

  ‘Oh, they’re not so bad now, Ma,’ Fleur said quickly. ‘Sitting on the tram has rested them.’ Fleur linked her arm through Emma’s. ‘But I am hungry? We’ve missed lunch.’ Fleur began to quicken her pace and Emma had no option but to quicken hers to match it.

  After the huge breakfast you ate? Emma thought. She wondered where the girl put all her food but it seemed she had no problem keeping her slim figure however much she ate. Fleur’s birth mother, Caroline Prentiss, had been whippet thin; certainly the last time Emma had seen her, she had been. She shook her head banishing Caroline Prentiss from it as best she could.

  ‘So we have,’ Emma said, although she wasn’t in the least bit hungry herself. She had so much to think about and the next meal wasn’t high on the list – besides, the food at the hotel was excellent, if becoming a bit samey now they’d been there a fortnight.

  They were near the harbour now. There were plenty of cafés from which to choose – Godwins, and Macari’s. And The Lanterns where once Emma had dined with Matthew Caunter and his wife, Annie, and where she’d embarrassed them both by saying she didn’t think much to the puddings. Then she’d asked to speak to the manager and offered her own French pastries. Looking back she couldn’t believe the audacity of it, given she’d been hardly any older than Fleur was now.

  ‘Oh, look, Ma!’ Fleur said, suddenly gripping Emma’s arm more tightly, leaning into her. ‘There’s an Italian ice cream parlour over there!’

  ‘So there is,’ Emma said, smiling. She had fond memories of buying delicious bread from the Italian bakery on Draper Drive back in Vancouver. The people running it had been bright and noisy, their characters like a ray of sunshine – a tonic – on the coldest of Canadian winter days.

  Emma was happy to allow herself to be dragged along the pavement. Coming back to Devon had to work out for Fleur as well as for herself. And if Fleur wanted to eat ice cream on a cold April afternoon, then she’d indulge the girl. The café had to serve coffee as well. And tea. And possibly hot chocolate. And cakes – yes, a cake would probably be enough before they had to face another three-course dinner at the Grand Hotel.

  CASCARINI’S it said in gold-edged curly writing over the door.

  Cascarini’s? Emma had a vague memory of seeing the name somewhere before as Fleur pushed open the door and they went inside. Fleur plonked herself down at a table by the wind
ow, took off her gloves and placed them on the top. She had an ear to ear grin.

  ‘Isn’t it lovely, Ma?’

  The proof of the pudding will be in the eating, Emma thought, but she sat down opposite Fleur without offering up her opinion and picked up the menu. Most of the things on it seemed to be ice cream.

  A man with black hair that had random patches of silver in it had his back to them doing something with some bottles on a shelf behind the counter.

  ‘Ahem,’ Fleur said, with a throat-clearing, attention-seeking cough.

  ‘Fleur!’ Emma admonished her. ‘The man will be over in a moment.’

  There were, Emma noticed, no other customers. Well, who could blame anyone for not wanting to eat ice cream on such a cold day? Although there had been people on roller skates working up a sweat on the pier, gliding up and down, doing fantastic turns as they’d passed. What, Emma had wondered, would it feel like to roller skate. Was she too old at thirty-four years old to learn?

  The man turned round then. He fixed his gaze on Emma and for a moment their eyes held. How sad his eyes looked, Emma thought. How serious his face. It was almost as though he didn’t want customers – didn’t want to see anyone. This, then, must be Signor Cascarini without a doubt, with that hair and those dark eyes and skin the colour of toffee. She wondered what might have happened to him to make him look so sad.

  He turned towards an open door at the end of the counter and spoke in a volley of Italian to someone Emma couldn’t see.

  ‘Si. Arriva!’ someone said – a woman’s voice.

  Rather impatient Emma thought.

  A woman of about sixty or so came bustling out. She was wearing a flowery apron over a plain powder blue dress. Her feet – quite swollen – were encased in black leather shoes with a thin strap across the instep, and with a little heel. And those heels clicked noisily on the tiled floor of the café as she approached Emma and Fleur’s table.

  She pushed strands of silver hair back behind her ears, and smiled. ‘Signora. Signorina,’ she said, with a little bow. She tapped the menu lying on the table. ‘How you want?’