Emma: A Modern Retelling

by Alexander McCall Smith

  ‘I saw something just like that dress in the Fashion and Textile Museum in London,’ Emma said. She spoke without thinking. Miss Taylor’s hand froze, just as she reached for the dress.

  Emma noticed, and became flustered. ‘They had modern things too,’ she said hastily. ‘High fashion. Everything. It’s quite a place.’

  Miss Taylor resumed her task. Slipping the dress off its hanger, she held the fabric briefly to her cheek, to feel it, as if to embrace it.

  ‘You said you don’t need many papers,’ Emma blurted out, eager to move on from museums. ‘I suppose we don’t, do we? A birth certificate? A passport – if we want to go somewhere.’ She paused. ‘My father hasn’t got an up-to-date passport, you know.’

  Miss Taylor moved across the room to the suitcase and laid it carefully in the suitcase. ‘No? I suppose he hasn’t gone anywhere for a long time.’

  ‘Not even to London,’ said Emma. ‘Or Norwich, for that matter.’

  ‘Some people don’t like to travel,’ she said. ‘And one can understand. Travel can be very vexing these days. All those people.’ Us, she thought; we are those people.

  ‘He doesn’t go anywhere because he’s anxious,’ said Emma.

  ‘Yes, he’s anxious. But that, you know, is because he loves you so much. He’s worried about you. He’s worried about me. He’s worried about the house. He won’t let go of things. He wants everything to remain the same.’

  ‘I know,’ said Emma. ‘Your leaving us – even to get married – is quite hard for him to accept.’

  ‘I can understand that,’ said Miss Taylor. ‘But I’m not exactly going far. I expect we’ll see each other every day. I can come round every morning. It’ll take me no more than twenty minutes to walk here, after all.’

  Emma conceded that this would be possible. But it would not be the same, she pointed out. It would not be the same going off to sleep at night knowing that Miss Taylor would be taking to her bed in an entirely different house. ‘I’m going to miss you so much,’ she said. ‘I just am.’

  They stood and looked at each other across the half-empty suitcases.

  ‘And I’m going to miss you too,’ said Miss Taylor. ‘I’m going to miss you, even if I see you every day. Does that sound odd to you?’

  ‘No,’ said Emma. ‘It doesn’t sound odd, because I think that’s exactly what I’m going to feel.’

  Miss Taylor moved forward; she hesitated, as she seemed to consider taking another step, but did not. Each was still separated from the other by several feet. A suitcase of underthings lay between them.

  ‘Darling Emma,’ said Miss Taylor. ‘Will you do one thing for me? Just one thing?’

  Emma nodded. ‘Of course. Anything.’

  ‘Will you make an effort?’

  Emma frowned. There were times when Miss Taylor sounded like a Scottish school teacher – which she was, when one came to think of it – an old-fashioned Scottish school teacher in high-ceilinged Edinburgh classroom, some Jean Brodie-like figure encouraging her pupils to work hard. But what did she mean by make an effort?

  ‘Yes. I’ll make an effort.’

  ‘Good,’ said Miss Taylor. ‘You’ll find that effort will be repaid. Always – or almost always.’

  10

  It took a few days for Emma to become accustomed to the absence of Miss Taylor. Breakfast, although it had always been a quiet meal, seemed now to be even more silent yet, punctuated only by increasingly audible sighs from Mr Woodhouse from behind his newspaper. These sighs might have been taken as a commentary on the state of the world – his newspaper revealed news that became worse and worse with each succeeding page – but they were not that at all: they were really expressions of regret over Miss Taylor’s departure.

  ‘Poor Miss Taylor,’ he said. ‘I shall never be able to understand it. She was perfectly comfortable here.’ He fixed Emma with a gaze that was at the same time both concerned and injured. ‘Do you think we should have offered her a better room? Do you think that might have made a difference?’

  ‘No,’ said Emma. ‘It was not a question of her room and how she felt about it. It had absolutely nothing to do with that. She met James. She fell in love.’

  This elicited an even deeper sigh from her father. ‘I see no reason for her to have fallen in love; for the life of me, I just don’t. Why fall in love with poor Weston, of all people?’

  Emma shrugged. ‘People fall in love with all sorts, Pops. It may seem odd to us, but presumably there are those who think James is attractive. I, for one, think he’s passable – just.’

  Mr Woodhouse shook his head. ‘Impossible,’ he said. ‘Poor Weston may have a very low resting heart rate, but can you imagine anybody finding his face appealing – with that nose of his? And his eyebrows? No, I can’t understand how anybody could like such a face. Imagine waking up every morning to see that face on the pillow beside one. Imagine it! What an awful shock it would be.’

  ‘Miss Taylor might like it,’ said Emma. ‘In fact, I suspect that she would have settled with having any face on the pillow next to her.’

  Mr Woodhouse raised his paper and resumed his reading. It was too painful a subject to be discussed any further – at least for him. Miss Taylor was now lost, even if she had telephoned to say that she and James would come for tea at four o’clock that afternoon. It simply would not be the same. He wondered what they would talk about. They would have to talk about something because when people visited you had to say something to them, and they had to say something back to you. It was different when they lived with you; then you could either spend time in silence, not having anything fresh to say, or you could say whatever came into your mind, not expecting any response.

  He tried to recall what he had talked to Miss Taylor about, and found it difficult. Of course they had conversed, and done so frequently, but it had never been necessary for him to remember anything of what she actually said, and she, no doubt, had felt the same about his conversation. And yet it had all been so satisfactory – so secure – and now the whole thing was ruined by her going off to Randalls like a headstrong schoolgirl. What could have possessed her? Was it something to do with sex? It had never occurred to him that Miss Taylor might have needs of that nature – why should she? He had always felt that there was a vague primness about Miss Taylor – that was something to do with coming from Edinburgh, of course, but it went further than that. Miss Taylor was asexual – she was pure – and the thought of her harbouring a passion for James Weston of all people was almost inconceivable. Weston! It would be like sleeping with a farmyard animal – all sweat and grunts and … he shuddered. It was uncomfortable even to think of it.

  Emma, of course, had other things to think about. She had been surprised at the pleasure that she had derived from bringing Miss Taylor and James together. There was something creative about making a successful introduction – something almost god-like. As a teenager there had been a brief period – no more than six months or so – when she had come under the spell of a visiting chaplain at school. This young man was only there to stand in for the regular chaplain, who was on sabbatical, but in the short time he was at the school, he had enthused a number of the pupils, largely owing to his looks, which would not have been out of place in a catalogue of male models – the sort who wear golf jackets or casual sweaters with such ease and conviction, gazing off in their photographs towards a horizon considerably more exciting than the horizons of most of us. The dreamy interest that Emma, and a score of other girls, had shown in his religious-education class had not lasted beyond his departure, but had meant that for the first time in the history of the school theological discussion among at least some of the pupils had overtaken any debate about some of the more usual subjects of teenage interest (music, the opposite sex, the incorrigibility of parents, clothes, and so on).

  Emma remembered in particular a class discussion with this chaplain about the creation of the world and the granting to humanity of free choice.

  �
��I can’t quite see why God would have made the world in the first place,’ she said. ‘And in particular I can’t see why he should have made it imperfect. Wouldn’t it have been better to avoid all this suffering by just not making it? I mean, why would he?’

  The chaplain had smiled. ‘A very good question, Emma.’

  And then there had been silence while the pupils awaited the answer.

  ‘We shouldn’t imagine that the divine mind works in the same way as ours does,’ said the chaplain at last. ‘But even if we do that for a moment, surely it’s possible to imagine the pleasure that comes from setting something off on its course and then watching to see what happens. I’d like that, I think. I’d rather like to get a few lives going and then see how they cope with the challenges.’

  That had made an impression on her, and it came back to her now as she thought about Miss Taylor and James. The chaplain had been right, she thought, even if she was not sure that his basic premise – the existence of God – could be defended. There was, she decided, a very particular pleasure in bringing two people together and seeing what would happen; in a way, it was rather as God might feel – if he felt anything. Of course it was quite possible that the results of one’s intervention might not be what one hoped they would be; there would be introductions, no doubt, that had dreadful consequences – Anne Boleyn would certainly have been introduced to that rotund psychopath, Henry VIII, and the outcome of that was undeniably unpleasant. But the risk, she thought, was worth taking, and James, benign and relaxed as he was, would hardly treat Miss Taylor as Henry had treated Anne.

  It occurred to her that she might do it again, and she thought of Harriet Smith. There she was, this rather naïve but very beautiful young woman, wasting her time teaching English to puzzled students at what was, after all, a disused airfield. What a waste that was, when Harriet could be livening up her life – or having it livened up for her – with a love affair. She imagined that there were plenty of young men at Mrs Goddard’s who would leap at the chance of a relationship with an attractive girl of the English-rose type such as Harriet was. But the problem with that would be that their command of English would not be quite up to it: there would be something vaguely comic about these young men saying things like, ‘Please can you tell me the way to the railway station and, by the way, I love the colour of your eyes.’ No, it would not come out like that at all, but would probably be: ‘Excuse me please, the colour of your eyes is very blue, is it not, and what is the way to the railway station?’

  She smiled at the thought, and decided that Harriet should not be wasted on a student, but should be brought to the attention of somebody of greater possibilities – somebody who could sort out the financial problems that she had alluded to and, at the stroke of a pen over a chequebook, make possible the gap year for which she was trying to save. You had to be realistic about these things, thought Emma; a hard-up boyfriend living in a garret was material for a romantic opera, but was not necessarily what you were looking for if you had no money yourself. There was no reason why solvent boyfriends could not be good-looking – and entertaining too. If she could only introduce Harriet to somebody like that – somebody who would take her away from Mrs Goddard’s school and whisk her off somewhere exotic … or at least take her out to dinner in London now and then, and to parties where people had fun and did not talk about the way to the railway station and such matters … The trouble, though, was that Harriet did not appear to know anybody, and that meant that she would need assistance in finding the right candidate for this affair she was planning – or rather that Emma was planning on her behalf. Emma thought for a moment: Whom did she know who had the money to give Harriet a good time?

  The issue of Harriet Smith’s emotional future arose rather sooner than Emma had planned. It was a week or so after the departure of Miss Taylor that Emma drove into the village in the Mini Cooper her father had given her for her twenty-first birthday – given, but then immediately regretted. Cars were dangerous, and he was entirely conversant with the information that the Consumer Association published on the survivability of accidents in various types of vehicle. It was not that a Mini Cooper, even one painted, as Emma’s was, in the colour known as British Racing Green, was more dangerous than other makes of car, it was just that every car had a mortality risk associated with it, and Mini Coopers were no exception. The only entirely safe car, Mr Woodhouse felt, was one kept resolutely in the garage. However, Emma had pressed him for a car and he’d realised that if he did not provide her with one, then she could end up buying one for which the safety ratings were lower than anything he might produce.

  Emma liked to drive into the village from time to time. There was not much for her to do there other than to buy the newspaper and occasional groceries, but it was an outing and it took her out of the house. After dropping in at the post office that doubled up as a newsagent, she would walk along the short village high street to the newly opened coffee house at the crossroads. A coffee house was something entirely new for Highbury, which was more tea-room territory than anything else, but it was proving popular with the locals, particularly with those who felt that the village pub had become unbearable since it had declared itself a ‘gastro-pub’ and put up its charges by almost forty per cent. Not that the coffee house was cheap, but its brews were good and there was always a selection of shortbread, muffins and scones that could be eaten while reading one of the magazines the owners thoughtfully provided for their customers. Emma liked a table by the window and would sit there for half an hour or so, checking her emails and watching the progression of people down the High Street. She knew virtually everybody, of course, and they recognised her, sometimes waving cheerfully when they saw her looking out of the window.

  On that particular morning she was not aware of Harriet Smith coming into the coffee house, as she was engrossed in reading a long and rather emotional email from one of her Bath friends. This friend, who had been going out with the same young man for three years, had recently split up with him and was bemoaning the fact that now that he was gone she would have to go to all the trouble of finding a replacement. ‘I know that you don’t care one way or another about having a man on hand,’ she wrote. ‘Frankly I need to have one about the place. I just do. But finding one is such a bore, Emma, and I wish I could just close my eyes and, bang, there’d be a man.’

  Emma’s reply was succinct. ‘Get someone to set you up,’ she said. ‘Either that, or internet dating, but with that I suppose you run the risk of getting some dreadful geek. Try being a nun. (Only joking.)’ She did not believe in emoticons, but this was an occasion when she thought she might just add one. While she was trying to work out how to do a wink, she heard a voice behind her and looked up sharply.

  ‘If you’re busy, I won’t disturb you,’ said Harriet.

  Emma pressed the send button without bothering about the emoticon. ‘I’m not busy,’ she said. ‘Just reading an email from a friend.’

  ‘I love getting emails,’ said Harriet. ‘But I don’t get all that many. I wondered whether my spam filter was stopping them all, but it wasn’t. I don’t even seem to get much spam.’

  Emma was on the point of saying that she had heard that there were such people, but stopped herself. ‘I’ll send you an email,’ she said.

  ‘Oh, that would be so nice,’ said Harriet as she sat down opposite Emma. ‘And I’ll reply to you.’

  ‘That would be really kind,’ said Emma. She was staring at Harriet. Surely somebody who looked as beautiful as that, she thought, would be constantly pestered by men. Did Harriet have to fend them off? Was there something about her – some vaguely fragile quality – that made men fear that if they got too close to her, if they actually touched her, she would break? There were some people who gave one that impression; they were not made for the rough and tumble of ordinary life.

  The cappuccino Harriet had ordered was now brought to the table. ‘You’re so kind,’ she said to the owner of the coffee bar. ‘And
your coffee’s so lovely. I could drink cup after cup but it would just make me all jumbled up! And heaven knows what I’d do if I were jumbled up.’

  Emma looked at her with interest. ‘You could do something really dramatic,’ she said.

  ‘Oh,’ said Harriet, looking momentarily concerned. ‘Do you really think so?’

  Emma laughed. ‘Not really. I don’t see you doing anything to be ashamed of. Not really.’

  ‘Well, that’s a great relief,’ said Harriet. ‘I can drink my coffee now without worrying about dashing off and doing something I might regret.’

  Emma’s eye ran down the clothes that Harriet was wearing. They were nothing special, she decided; in fact, they looked rather cheap. And when it came to her shoes, these were a pair of trainers that had once presumably been red but were now a washed-out colour somewhere between khaki and pink. Somebody like Harriet, with her china-doll build, should not be in trainers, thought Emma. She should be wearing dainty soft leather shoes like ballet pumps, perhaps with a delicate bow on each toe. Shoes like that were expensive, of course, and if you didn’t have the money, or were saving it for your gap year, then they would be beyond your reach. But trainers! It would be interesting to see what a small amount of money spent on Harriet could achieve, thought Emma. It would be a transformation.

  Harriet raised her cup to her mouth and took a small, cautious sip – as if the ingestion of any more copious quantity of coffee might have an immediate jumbling effect. She lowered the cup and dabbed daintily at her mouth with a paper napkin. Her lips, Emma saw, were perfect: a Cupid’s bow of a mouth.

  ‘There’s something I wanted to tell you,’ Harriet began. ‘I hope you don’t mind. It’s a bit of a secret actually, but I felt that I could share it with you.’