Emma: A Modern Retelling

by Alexander McCall Smith

  Emma started to remove the portrait from the sketchbook so that she could frame it. She was glad that it was finished, as she was beginning to feel bored with Harriet’s company. There were so many more interesting things to think about, she felt; poor Harriet was so superficial. Her destiny was to be handed over to Philip as soon as possible and to go off on a well-funded gap year. That was what was contemplated for her. And as for her own life, Emma thought that there were numerous possibilities. There was Mr Frank Churchill to start with: something might well come of him. And there would be no difficulty in seeing him, as she and her father could easily invite James and Miss Taylor over for dinner and then add, ‘And do bring anybody staying with you’. She was not sure about inviting Harriet, as the last thing she would want would be for Frank Churchill’s head to be turned by Harriet’s looks. That would not do at all. But she could hardly not invite her, she decided, as she was bound to hear of the dinner party and wonder why she had not been included. She had so much in this life, and Harriet had so little; it would be a kindness on her part to include her. So Harriet would get an invitation, but would not be seated anywhere near Frank Churchill.

  Later, after Harriet had left, Emma sat in her study and thought. Why, she wondered, had Frank gone to see Miss Bates? It seemed so odd; unless, of course, he was paying a dutiful call on an old friend of his father. That was entirely possible: Miss Bates and James had known each other for years and Frank might just have been calling in to find out how Miss Bates was, not having seen her for so long. That was the most likely explanation; she was sure of it, and saw no reason to think about it any more. Cadit quaestio, one might say.

  16

  The guest list for the dinner party ran to more names than Emma had originally envisaged, including Mrs Goddard, who had not been on Emma’s initial list, but who had been invited by Mr Woodhouse. ‘I’ve added somebody to our dinner party,’ he announced. ‘Floss Goddard. I bumped into her in the village and asked her. I hadn’t seen her for a long time.’

  ‘The English as a foreign language woman?’ asked Emma.

  ‘That’s her.’

  Emma bit her lip. ‘I wish you hadn’t. This dinner party is getting larger and larger by the minute. Have you invited anybody else?’

  ‘Miss Bates,’ he said.

  ‘That’ll be fun.’ The sarcasm behind the remark was not concealed.

  ‘She’s a nice woman, Emma. And her niece too.’

  Emma sighed, although she was secretly pleased that Jane Fairfax would be there. Jane would be no threat to Frank Churchill’s attention, as long as they could make sure that she did not play the piano; some men admired talent, although most of them, she thought, were far too unsubtle to do that. She would make sure that Jane was seated near her, as there was still a lot she wanted to find out about her.

  Mr Woodhouse, though, should not be let off that easily. ‘You may as well invite the whole village.’ She paused. ‘How do you know Mrs Goddard, anyway?’

  ‘We go back a bit,’ said Mr Woodhouse. ‘When she bought the old airfield I was on the Parish Council and she submitted her plans to us. I got to know her then. That was about fifteen years ago.’

  ‘Well, I suppose you’ve gone and done it. We can’t uninvite people, Pops. Mrs Firhill is going to have to make double quantities of everything, since we’re feeding the entire community, more or less.’

  ‘Oh, and I invited Philip Elton,’ said Mr Woodhouse. ‘I forgot about him.’

  Emma did not mind about that. She had been at the vicarage the previous day – Philip had been out at the time – and she had posted her sketch of Harriet through the letter box as he had said that he knew a good framer and could get it framed at an attractive price. She wanted to hear his views of the sketch, and this would provide an opportunity to do so, even if it meant putting up with his company for the evening.

  ‘And George Knightley?’ asked Emma.

  ‘Of course.’

  Mr Woodhouse now became silent. He frowned, and then looked out of the window, as if whatever was worrying him was outside.

  ‘Something wrong?’ asked Emma.

  He hesitated briefly before replying. ‘All these guests,’ he said. ‘I enjoy these occasions, as you well know, Emma. But a thought has suddenly occurred. Do you think that all these people have …’ He broke off, looking slightly embarrassed.

  ‘What? Have what?’

  ‘Have all their immunisations up to date? Do you think we could ask them?’

  Emma looked at him with frank disbelief. ‘Oh really, Daddy!’ The Pops disappeared at moments of stress and her earlier, more authentic way of addressing her father returned. ‘Really!’

  ‘You may laugh,’ he said, ‘but it’s a thought. You know that you can catch whooping cough as an adult. It’s very unpleasant. It lasts for months.’

  Emma knew that nothing she could say would reassure him, but she tried. ‘You can use sanitizer after you’ve shaken hands with them,’ she said. ‘Discreetly, of course.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ said Mr Woodhouse. He was not entirely convinced, though, as he had read the small print on the labels of those sanitizers. ‘Kills 99.9% of known germs’, they claimed. And what about the remaining 0.1 per cent, he asked himself. What about them? Ninety-nine point nine per cent of household germs were probably quite harmless anyway; 0.1 per cent, however, were not. And then there were the unknown germs; nothing was said of them, and, as everybody knew, what manufacturers and advertisers did not say was often much more important than what they did say.

  On the day of the dinner party, Emma was ready well in advance. She herself had not helped with any of the preparations, having left these to Mrs Firhill, who had in due course invoked the help of both her husband and Mrs Sid. To Bert Firhill was delegated the task of laying the table and polishing the glasses before setting them alongside each place. Mr Woodhouse was fussy about clean glass; ‘There is nothing – nothing – worse than a glass that has fingerprints or smudges on it,’ he said, which was not true, of course, even as an account of his own views, as there were many things that he thought considerably worse than the minor health hazard posed by dirty glass. But wine hygiene had become a concern of his since he had read in The Economist of a restaurant in which the dregs of wine left over in customers’ glasses was decanted into empty bottles and then re-corked for subsequent service. He had been haunted by this information, and had resolved never to drink wine in a restaurant again; which made little difference to his life, as he never went out for dinner anyway – other than to Randalls, and occasionally to Donwell Abbey. He was sure that James Weston would never stoop to such practices, although there remained a niggling doubt in his mind that Miss Taylor, being Scottish, might object to any wastage and, were the idea to be planted in her mind, might do just that. He knew that she was canny, and remembered her telling, with some pride in her voice, of an elderly uncle of hers, an Aberdonian and therefore particularly imbued with habits of Scottish frugality, who had used a bicycle-tube repair outfit to patch up his hot-water bottle after eighteen years of use. Coming from such a background, Miss Taylor might just be tempted to drain used wine glasses and recycle the wine; he would have to watch very carefully, he decided, to see whether the tops of the wine bottles were properly sealed when they were opened. But what if the bottles were broached in the kitchen prior to being brought into the dining room? This unresolved question had worried him and would continue to do so. Perhaps it would be best to have it out with James and ask him outright whether his bottles had had old wine poured into them. But could one ever ask such a question? Would offence he taken, even by an old friend? These questions added to his discomfort.

  Bert was used to Mr Woodhouse’s oddities, and did not object to the request that he wear white butler’s gloves while polishing the wine glasses.

  ‘Good idea, Mr Woodhouse,’ he suggested. ‘You never know where hands have been. Or you do, perhaps.’

  Mr Woodhouse frowned. What could this remark
possibly mean?

  ‘Only joking,’ said Bert cheerfully. ‘My hands are pure as the driven snow. Carbolic soap – my old dad used it to get the grime off when he finished a day’s work and I’ve done the same, man and boy.’

  This reassured Mr Woodhouse. ‘That’s very good, Mr Firhill. But please use a fresh cloth. There are plenty of those blue things in the pantry, near the rubbish sacks.’

  Bert set to work. As he was polishing, Mrs Sid came in with a stack of plates. ‘You’ll observe that herself is not helping much,’ she said. ‘It’s her own party and yet who’s not in evidence to lend a hand? The hostess, that’s who.’

  ‘She’s a spoiled little baggage,’ muttered Bert. ‘Too much money. Too much time on her hands. And attitude too.’

  Mrs Sid agreed. ‘Sid’s too soft on her. He says that she’s not too bad compared with some he’s come across in his time.’

  ‘Oh yes?’ said Bert, picking up a heavy Stuart crystal glass on which he had located an errant fingerprint. ‘Well, Sid hasn’t seen what I seen. Naked cavorting with …’ He stopped himself, but it was too late. He had not actually seen it – not with his own eyes – but his wife had seen it and he felt that this was as good as his having seen it himself. For the most part, they saw the same things anyway; so what difference did it make?

  ‘What?’ asked Mrs Sid, her voice lowered to conspiratorial levels.

  ‘Nothing,’ said Bert.

  ‘Come on, Bert. You may not have meant to say anything, but you can’t put a burp back in the stomach, as they say. Naked what? Cavorting?’

  Bert had not intended to speak about what his wife had seen, but now had no alternative. He told Mrs Sid about having seen Harriet Smith with no clothes on, although this time he said nothing about not having seen Emma. Quite reasonably, Mrs Sid concluded that Emma had been naked too. She let out a long low whistle.

  ‘Shameless!’ she whispered. ‘No clothes!’

  ‘I’m not saying nothing,’ said Bert. ‘But we can draw our own conclusions.’

  Mrs Sid shook her head. ‘I don’t see how Sid will be able to shrug that one off,’ she said. ‘That’ll change his tune.’

  In the kitchen, Mrs Firhill laboured over the soup, and then laboured over the main course, the pudding, and the cheese course. Emma appeared a quarter of an hour before the guests were due to arrive, and sampled the soup.

  ‘That’s really good soup, Mrs Firhill,’ she said brightly. ‘They’ll love that. And what about the venison? Don’t make it too dry. I can’t stand venison when it’s dry.’

  ‘It’s coming on nicely,’ said Mrs Firhill, tight-lipped.

  From the corner of the kitchen, Mr Firhill, peeling off his butler’s gloves, looked sideways at Emma. His glance was intercepted by Mrs Sid, who was cutting slices of stale bread into small squares for croutons. She narrowed her eyes to express shared affront. She was not to know, of course, what Bert was thinking, which is just as well.

  Philip Elton was the first to arrive.

  ‘Oh good,’ said Mr Woodhouse as he looked out of the drawing-room window. ‘Here’s Philip.’

  Emma raised an eyebrow. ‘I always thought that one should be at least ten minutes late.’

  ‘But he is,’ said Mr Woodhouse. ‘We said seven-thirty, and it’s now seven-forty. Somebody has to arrive first.’

  ‘Fifteen minutes is better,’ said Emma. ‘Inflation, you know.’

  Mr Woodhouse shook a finger in mock reproach. ‘Philip is a man of the cloth, Emma. He may be hungry, for all we know.’

  Emma was having none of this. ‘Pah!’ she said. ‘He owns an office block in Ipswich and all those flats in Norwich. And he drives a BMW Something-something. You don’t drive a BMW Something-something if you’re on the bread line.’

  Mr Woodhouse had heard of the structural problems in the office block. ‘I hear that he has dampness—’

  ‘Yes, he’s extremely wet,’ interjected Emma.

  ‘In his cladding. That is, in the cladding of that office block. The rain gets in behind the façade, you see, and then it doesn’t dry off because it’s behind those prefabricated panels. It’s a serious problem.’

  ‘He could sell it,’ said Emma. ‘It could be advertised as a building with running water.’

  Mr Woodhouse smiled. ‘You don’t like Philip, my dear – I think I can tell that. Try not to show it, will you?’

  Bert Firhill had been deputed to open the front door to the guests and to bring them into the drawing room. He had put on the butler’s gloves for the task – he was rather proud of them, even if they did not go with the blazer and tie that he was wearing. Now he brought Philip in and announced him formally, ‘The vicar.’

  Philip stepped forward. He looked at Emma as he did so, and so did Bert.

  ‘It’s very good to see you, Philip,’ said Mr Woodhouse. ‘This is just a fairly spontaneous little party, but we thought it would be nice to have people over for another dinner. People should try to get back into the habit of giving dinner parties.’

  ‘They should indeed,’ said Philip. ‘It’s a very civilised practice that seems to be dying out these days. I’m very much in favour of dinner parties.’

  ‘Yet you don’t give them yourself,’ observed Emma. She said this without apparent malice, in an observational tone of voice. And then she added, ‘As far as I know.’

  Mr Woodhouse gave her a warning look. This was not a good start. ‘Philip is very busy, Emma,’ he said. ‘He has his parish work and his …’ He waved a hand in the air. ‘His …’

  ‘Ph.D.,’ said Philip, smiling at Emma. ‘But you’re right, Emma. I should hold a dinner party, and I shall do so soon. And I hope – I fervently hope – that you will head the list of invitees. You and your father, of course.’

  Mr Woodhouse looked slightly flustered. ‘I don’t go out very much,’ he said. ‘So don’t worry about me.’

  ‘Then please come by yourself,’ said Philip to Emma.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said. She had just noticed that Bert Firhill was staring at her. Why? ‘I think that’s the bell,’ she said.

  ‘I don’t think so,’ replied Bert. ‘I didn’t hear it.’

  ‘Well, if it didn’t ring, then I am sure that it will do so shortly.’ She paused. ‘Would you mind?’

  Bert left the room and Emma poured Philip a drink. He had asked for a gin and tonic, and she made sure that it was a good triple measure. She handed this to him, and then made a whisky and soda for her father.

  ‘It was very good of you to put that sketch through my door the other day,’ said Philip, as he took a sip of his drink. ‘I’m sorry that I wasn’t in when you called. Parish business, you know.’

  Emma waited for him to say something further, but he was intent on a second sip of his gin and tonic. ‘I hope you liked it,’ she said. ‘It was just a little sketch – nothing major.’

  Philip lowered his glass. ‘But it was wonderful,’ he said. ‘It really was. You captured Harriet’s look just perfectly, if I may give you my opinion. That slightly upturned nose of hers …’

  ‘Retroussé,’ said Emma.

  ‘Yes, that retroussé nose. And her hands – they were very delicately painted.’

  ‘They’re delicate hands,’ said Emma. ‘Hands are often difficult to do.’

  ‘I’m sure they are. But you did them beautifully.’

  ‘You’re very kind.’

  Philip raised his glass to his lips. Emma noticed that the level was going down rather quickly. At least one gin had been consumed by now; two remained. It would be amusing, she thought, to see him inebriated. He might say something highly entertaining; one never knew. But it would certainly put him in the right frame of mind to make an advance to Harriet; inhibitions never helped romance to flourish.

  ‘Have you taken the picture to the framers yet?’ she asked.

  Philip shook his head. ‘Not yet, no. No. We may have to reconsider that.’

  ‘Reconsider framing it?’ asked Emma. ‘W
hy?’

  He shifted from foot to foot. He’s embarrassed, thought Emma. Had he perhaps made a rash promise of being able to get good framers to do the job and then found that he could not? Was that the problem?

  ‘I’m not sure if it’s quite right,’ said Philip, looking nervously at Mr Woodhouse, who was following this conversation although not joining in.

  Emma was about to ask why he felt this, but was interrupted by the arrival of the next party of guests. This was James Weston, Miss Taylor, and Frank Churchill. She stepped forward to greet Frank.

  ‘I last saw you when we were about twelve,’ said Frank. ‘I don’t remember it very well, but I think you ignored me entirely.’

  Emma laughed. ‘Children are so rude to one another, aren’t they?’

  ‘Too true,’ said Frank. ‘But we’re not twelve any more.’

  ‘I promise I won’t be rude to you,’ said Emma.

  ‘Good. I couldn’t bear it if you were. We Australians are very sensitive, you know.’

  Everybody laughed. It was such a witty thing to say.

  ‘You and Frank must have a lot of catching up to do,’ Mr Woodhouse remarked to James Weston.

  ‘Yes,’ said James, looking proudly at his son. ‘We do. But we’ve got Frank for months now, we hope, and so there’ll be plenty of time.’

  ‘It’s been a very happy few days for all of us,’ said Miss Taylor.

  Emma was taking the opportunity to study Frank. Harriet had said to die for, and she was right. She studied his face. It was the regularity of the features that struck her, and again Harriet, for all her naïvety, had been right about that. The classical ideal of beauty required that nose and eyes should bear a certain proportional relationship to the brow, and whatever that proportion was – and perhaps it was that magical Greek figure, phi – then Frank Churchill had it. She looked at his hair: light brown turned golden at the top by exposure to the sun. He was male perfection incarnate: it was as simple as that. And he had a brain, people said. That made a difference. A dumb Adonis would have been tedious; one who thought and could speak in sentences – with subjects and verbs – was infinitely more attractive.