Stella’s wedding dress was still hanging from a rail in the corner of her atelier, covered in a length of cotton sheeting – a shroud for the death of Stella’s dream of marrying Matthew. Having it there was haunting Emma, but she couldn’t move it because Stella might be back any day to collect it. Or have it altered. Or sell it.
‘Tom talks to him,’ Fleur said. ‘I saw them. Down by the New Pier Inn.’
‘The New Pier Inn?’ Emma said, alarmed. That was practically at the bottom of her garden! Was Matthew spying on her? Again.
Fleur shrugged.
‘When?’ Emma asked.
‘Last week? Yesterday? I can’t remember now. But it seems to me that little bit of information has struck a raw nerve, Ma. I wish you’d tell me what’s wrong. Before I go.’
‘Go? Go where?’
‘Back to Canada, I hope.’
Fleur waved the letter she had in her hand at Emma. And now Emma was thinking about it, she’d seen Fleur with that same envelope in her hands for days now – seen her reading and re-reading the letter – and she hadn’t thought to ask who it was from.
‘You’ve had a letter from Delia?’
‘I have. But this isn’t it. This is from Vancouver College. They’ve got a place for me to study art if I want to take it up, I—’
‘Oh, that’s nice,’ Emma said. And when Fleur looked at her crossly she realised what it was she had just said, and what she could have been accused of. But not this time. This time she really was listening. ‘Your pa would be so pleased to know you’re taking after him.’
Perhaps she’d got it all wrong? If Fleur was artistic, as Seth had been, then he could be her father after all, couldn’t he? Might it have been that she and Seth simply weren’t the right mix for making babies? Did anyone really know how they were made?
‘You’re not going to bawl me out for going behind your back organising all this? I mean, I telephoned Delia’s ma at least three times. Her offer to let me lodge with her still stands. It’s only a tram ride to the college from the Gethin house and Delia will be on the course, too.’
‘That’s nice,’ Emma said again. And then she laughed. ‘Goodness, I can see Miss Walton’s outraged face at my use of that banal little word. “Emma Le Goff! Nice? Nice? Why use that futile little word when there are so many other better ones in the dictionary to convey your pleasure?” Miss Walton will be turning in her grave listening to me!’
‘Miss who?’
‘Miss Walton. My English teacher when I was at school in Brixham. She hated lazy speech.’
Emma felt a tiny twinge of guilt that she was making jokes barely a second after Fleur had told her of her plans – plans made behind her back she was expecting to be told off for. But she was being presented with time and space to work out what to do about the baby and that was what she needed. She wouldn’t have to tell Fleur about the baby just yet if she was in Canada, would she?
‘So I can go? Back to Canada?’
There were a jumble of emotions inside Emma at that moment. Her thoughts skittered from one thing to the other the way a chained dog skitters when let off the leash. But one thought was clear – she would never be able to give her baby up for adoption. However much she might be frowned upon for having a child out of wedlock, she wouldn’t give up her child. But she would face all that when the time came. She could move somewhere else and spread the story that her husband had died before she gave birth. But she wasn’t going to make any plans now because she’d made plans before and had to change them.
But nothing and nobody was going to part her from this child. Not ever.
‘It means I won’t be able to be Stella Martin’s bridesmaid in February,’ Fleur continued, but Emma thought she didn’t look in the least upset that she wouldn’t be.
‘Stella Martin won’t be getting married now,’ Emma told her.
And please, please, don’t ask me why not?
‘Well, that’s all right then. It’s a woman’s prerogative to change her mind, isn’t it?’
How swiftly and concisely Fleur had bundled up all the emotions that had gone into the untangling of Stella’s engagement.
‘Yes, yes,’ Emma said. ‘So the saying has it.’
‘So I can go? Back to Canada?’ Fleur asked again. ‘I’d prefer it if you came, too, but I don’t think you want to, do you? Not now you’re friends with Ruby again and you’ve started the dressmaking business.’
‘I can’t,’ Emma said.
‘But, can I? Go back to Canada I mean. I really, really want to.’
‘Can we talk about it?’ Emma said. ‘When I’ve finished this bit of sewing, or my reputation will be in as many tatters as this hem is at the moment.’
‘But soon?’
‘Yes, Fleur, very soon.’
Fleur had never expected it to be that easy – telling her ma she wanted to go back to Canada. Of course, she’d had to tell her that she’d made some long distance telephone calls to Mrs Gethin, and Delia, and that the plan had been in her head a long time. Almost as soon as she’d arrived in England, if truth were told, and she was honest with herself. But her ma hadn’t made a fuss or gone on and on about the cost of the telephone calls or anything.
And now Fleur was packing. Her ma had got Tom to bring the old tin trunks they’d brought with them from Canada from the loft and Fleur was slowly filling them up. But not too slowly because her package was booked and her ma had found a companion – a minister’s wife – to travel with her.
Mrs Passmore just happened to mention when she came for a fitting that she had a sister about to go to Canada to join her husband who was running a mission there. She was sailing from Liverpool to Halifax, and from there she was going across Canada on the train.
And so it had all been arranged. One week to go and Fleur would be off. On the last boat before they stopped sailing for the winter because the sea would be too rough, or iced up. She couldn’t wait. She didn’t even mind the thought of the very cold winter she knew was coming – she’d lived through thirteen such winters so she was used to it.
‘Ah, I thought this is where you might be,’ her ma said. She stood in the doorway with a coat draped over one arm and a pile of winceyette floral nightdresses she’d been making for Fleur in her hands. ‘All finished. This lot should keep you warm enough.’
‘Thanks, Ma,’ Fleur said. ‘I’ll take care of them because I know for a fact Mrs Gethin can’t even thread a needle!’
Excitement was bubbling up inside Fleur now.
‘I’m going to miss you,’ her ma said. ‘But I wouldn’t dream of stopping you.’
‘But you don’t want to come back?’
‘No,’ her ma said. ‘Not yet anyway. But I’ll come over to visit you just as soon as I can.’
‘In the spring?’ Fleur said. ‘Or early summer. I’ll be off college in the summer.’
‘I’ll try,’ her ma said. She looked down at her feet as she spoke, and Fleur thought it might be because she was fighting back tears that she was leaving. ‘Mrs Bailey told me her son and daughter-in-law might be going over for a visit next year some time. So it might be possible to travel with them.’
‘I like Mrs Bailey,’ Fleur said. ‘She’s good fun for her age.’
‘For her age?’ Her ma laughed, but the laugh didn’t reach her eyes as her ma’s laughs usually did, Fleur noticed. ‘She’s only a few years older than I am and I’m hardly old. I’m …’
But her ma didn’t finish the sentence. She walked on into the room and placed the pile of nightdresses on Fleur’s bed, found a hanger and hung the coat up on a knob of the wardrobe.
‘These things won’t get packed with me standing in the doorway, will they?’ she said.
Fleur didn’t think there was an answer to that so she didn’t give one. Instead she went to her dressing table and picked up the photograph of her pa. A head and shoulder study that gave no indication of what a big bear of a man he was, but in it he was smiling and Fleur could remember hi
m telling her he’d had to hold the pose for so long he thought his jaw might have to stay that way.
‘I’m going to take this,’ Fleur said. ‘And one of you. There’s hardly any of you and pa together, only your wedding photograph and there’s only one of those, isn’t there?’
Her ma looked up sharply at her then.
‘I wouldn’t take it even if you said I could, Ma,’ Fleur said quickly. ‘You and pa look so happy in that photograph.’
‘We were,’ her ma said. ‘Very, very happy. But I could get it copied if you’d really like one. Although I don’t know if it would be done in time. Don’t forget Ruby and the children are coming over this afternoon to say goodbye to you.’
‘I haven’t forgotten. But it’s not goodbye, it’s au revoir. That’s what you always say, isn’t it?’
‘It is. It sounds less final, I always think.’
‘And I’ll be back, I’m sure of it. If not to live permanently, then to visit. Or there might be art opportunities in London for me, once I’ve got all my certificates.’
Fleur began to wish now she’d gone to London while she was here. There were so many wonderful old buildings in London. And art galleries and museums. Well, none of that was going anywhere, was it? She could see it all some other time.
‘Seth would have been so proud,’ her ma said. ‘As I am, of course. It’s a brave thing to go to another country on your own.’
‘I won’t be on my own. Mrs Bailey will help the journey time pass quickly, I’m sure of it. And once I’m there it’ll be like old times sitting up most of the night chatting to Delia.’
‘And talking of chatting,’ her ma said, ‘I’ve got some pastries in the oven for tea this afternoon. And I’ve some little cakes to make and ice for the children. Oh, and did I say I’ve hired a gramophone from Harris & Osborne and bought some dance records so we can make it a proper party? There’ll be dancing on the boat going over and this will give you chance to practise your Charleston.’
‘Oh, Ma,’ Fleur said. She swallowed back a sob.
The last party she’d had, when Caroline had turned up, was still too fresh in her mind for comfort. Not that she’d be turning up unannounced this time because she was in prison somewhere. Fleur shivered involuntarily. She didn’t want to see that woman again as long as she lived, and going to Canada was a way of avoiding doing so, even though that wasn’t her main aim in going.
And Paolo and his pa and his grandmother had been there as well. They’d all brought her lovely presents. She had them packed in her trunk to take to Canada, even the little leather purse with the Italian coin in it that Paolo had bought her. She hadn’t seen him since the incident at the cinema, and she didn’t want to either. He hadn’t replied to her letter but she hadn’t expected him to. But she wouldn’t forget him. He’d been her first, and only friend in England and he’d been a lot of fun before he became a stereotypical Italian who couldn’t keep his eyes – or his hands – off the girls. While Fleur had been tempted to let him make love to her, she was glad she hadn’t now. She’d have been just another notch on the proverbial bedpost, wouldn’t she? Before he found a good Italian wife.
‘You haven’t invited Signor Cascarini and …’ No, Fleur couldn’t even say his name.
‘Of course I haven’t,’ her ma said. ‘While it might have been nice for Eduardo to come and say au revoir to you, I’m not so insensitive that I don’t understand you wouldn’t want his son there. So I haven’t invited either of them.’
‘Oh, Ma,’ Fleur said again. She was going to miss her so much but staying here would stifle both of them. Fleur had a feeling the only reason she was refusing to take Matthew Caunter’s telephone calls was because she was worried Fleur might not like the fact he was replacing her pa in her ma’s affections.
I’ve only been here a bare six months and yet I feel I’ve aged six years in experience, Fleur thought. Of course she wouldn’t mind her ma loving someone else, and being loved in return – she just didn’t want to be around to see all the billing and cooing that was all. But why wouldn’t her ma take Mr Caunter’s telephone calls? What was all that about? Couldn’t she see he adored her?
‘Can I smell burning?’ her ma asked.
Fleur sniffed the air.
‘Not yet,’ she said, laughing. ‘I’ve got something for you. I haven’t forgotten it’s your birthday, you know.’
Fleur lifted her pillow from the bed and brought out the painting she’d done of her ma. A portrait, sideways on, of Emma bent over a piece of sewing. Fleur had peeped in through the crack in the door and done a pencil sketch. The light had been low and making her ma’s hair glow, pinking her cheeks. It had been a race against time to turn it into a watercolour, painting it in her room, hiding it in her wardrobe when she went out so her ma wouldn’t find it.
‘You painted this?’ her ma said.
Fleur pretended to look for someone in the room. ‘Seems I must have seeing as there’s no one else here.’
‘Well, it’s wonderful. I adore it. I shall treasure it always. And one day I’ll tell you how very special it is to me. Thank you so much. And now I really can smell burning.’
And her ma ran from the room, clutching the painting to her – so I won’t see her tears. And so she won’t see mine, Fleur thought. She grabbed a pillow from the bed and held it over her eyes until the tears stopped.
And what did her ma mean by ‘And one day I’ll tell you how very special it is to me’?
Emma was pleased she’d thought to invite Mrs Bailey to join them for Fleur’s leaving party because Mrs Bailey turned up with her son and daughter-in-law – Adam and Rebecca. More people would mean less time to focus on Fleur and the fact she would be leaving soon.
Emma’s hallstand was filling up with her guests’ coats. Over in one corner of her large hall Tom was running a hand through young Thomas’s hair in an attempt to tidy it. Ruby had rushed off to the kitchen to keep on eye on things there while Emma greeted her guests.
‘I should have telephoned you to ask first, Mrs Jago,’ Mrs Bailey said, ‘but, well, I won’t be seeing Adam and Rebecca for a little while – almost a year to be precise – and they called in unexpectedly to see me so I thought I’d bring them along. I hope you don’t mind me doing so, it will be give me another hour or two in their company before I set sail.’
‘Not at all. I’m delighted to meet them,’ she said, extending a hand first to Adam and then Rebecca. They were both around Emma’s age and her heart lifted just a little that as she was about to say au revoir to Fleur, two new people were about to come into her orbit, as it were. Two people with whom she – and her baby – might be able to travel to Canada next year.
‘Rumour has it you’re a seamstress!’ Rebecca said, laughing.
The exclamation mark on the end of her sentence seemed to dance between them in the air, like a sword in a highland fling. She was a small woman, barely five feet tall, with the most beautiful auburn curls. Her skin was whiter than alabaster and her deep green eyes – the same shade as holly leaves, Emma thought – smiled their pleasure at meeting Emma and that she was a seamstress.
‘Seamstress, dressmaker, fashion designer,’ Fleur joined the conversation. ‘My ma can make anything.’
‘So Mrs Passmore told me,’ Rebecca said grinning.
‘What my daughter-in-law is trying to say,’ Mrs Bailey said, ‘is that she’s rather hoping you will be able to make her some clothes to, well … disguise.’ With a huge grin on her face she tapped her tummy to indicate that Rebecca was expecting a baby.
Well, that makes two of us. Although why a happily married woman wanted to disguise the fact she was expecting a baby was beyond Emma. But thinking about it now, she’d hardly ever seen a pregnant woman in the town, or walking along the promenade. Where did they go when they were expecting? Was she expected to go wherever that place was? Did they get someone else to go to Dey’s the grocer for them until their babies were born? Had she been in the position Rebecca was
in then she would want to proudly carry her precious load before her for all to see. But she wasn’t. But she was good at making clothes to disguise a person’s deformity – be it a hunchback or a short leg or a withered arm. Or a baby.
Stop it! You’re making pregnancy sound like an affliction. Something to be lived with, not embraced and enjoyed. And Fleur has given me the most beautiful painting of me carrying my child.
And if she made something for Rebecca then she could make the same thing for herself at the same time, couldn’t she?
‘I’ll be delighted to,’ Emma said.
And she’d worry about how she was going to get her food shopping done, and her sewing supplies fetched from Beares and Rossiters at a later date. She hadn’t even begun to show yet, thank goodness. Or have her pregnancy confirmed by a doctor, but she knew. She felt different. And with winter coming on she could go out as the light began to fade and perhaps no one would notice her bump in the darkness.
‘Gosh, could you?’ Rebecca said. ‘If you tell me how many miles of fabric I’ll need then I’ll go to Beares on Monday and choose something. I’m not four months yet and already I’m the size of a baby elephant.’
‘Just as well I adore baby elephants, then,’ her husband said, putting his arm around her.
Emma didn’t think she’d be able to stand there a second longer, witnessing such love, such joint joy at the thought of the coming baby, knowing that she had no intention whatsoever of telling Matthew he was about to become a father again, albeit with an almost twenty year gap between his children. She couldn’t imagine he’d be thrilled at the thought.
‘I’ll just go and see how Ruby’s getting on in the kitchen,’ Emma said. ‘If you’ll excuse me.’
‘Of course,’ Mrs Bailey said. ‘Fleur and I can get to know one another a little better before we depart on our exciting journey.’
It was a much shorter journey for Emma to the kitchen where she found Ruby stuffing something into her mouth.
‘Caught you!’ Emma said. ‘You’re no better than you were when you were eighteen years old up at Nase Head House, forever stealing bits in the kitchen.’
Emma and Her Daughter Page 30