Emma: A Modern Retelling

by Alexander McCall Smith

  ‘I don’t pay tax,’ muttered Harriet.

  ‘I do,’ said Emma. ‘Come on.’

  There was something happening at the entrance to the chapel in the First Court. A crowd of people was milling about main door of the chapel, and when this door opened, the people surged forward. Emma’s eye was caught by one of these people. ‘Frank,’ she whispered.

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Over there. Going into the chapel.’

  Harriet could not see him. ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Yes, he’s gone inside.’

  ‘And Jane? Did you see her?’

  ‘I think so, but I couldn’t tell.’

  They crossed the court. Outside the chapel, there was a small noticeboard announcing a special concert by the choristers in aid of an organisation that supported prisoners of conscience. This was the reason for the crowd, most of which had now been admitted to the chapel.

  They went inside. A student was at the door, selling tickets. Emma paid for both of them and put the change into a collecting box on the table. The student thanked her. ‘You can sit anywhere,’ she said. ‘It’ll start in about five minutes.’

  Some of those admitted to the chapel had not yet sat down, but were walking about looking up at the stained-glass windows. Emma wanted an unobtrusive seat and so she pointed to a pew towards the back. More people were coming in now, and the chapel was filling up.

  They sat down.

  ‘Can you see them?’ whispered Harriet.

  Emma scanned the rows of heads, the backs. ‘Yes,’ she whispered back. ‘They’re there. Right towards the front.’

  A man emerged from the side and stood in front of a microphone near the choir stalls. He tapped the mouthpiece with a finger to attract attention.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen, dear friends,’ he began. ‘The choristers of the college have kindly agreed to perform this concert this afternoon because they support the work of our organisation. As you know, we are concerned with prisoners of conscience – people who are detained not because they have committed crimes as we would understand them, but because they have expressed views that challenge those in power. In most cases, this is because they have simply told the truth, or worked for the truth as they see it.

  ‘I don’t need to tell you about the suffering of these people and about what your support means to them. I’m sure that you are well aware of that. Here, in this beautiful place, this peaceful sanctuary from the wickedness of the world, it may be hard to imagine the suffering of those who are kept apart from others, locked up in conditions intended to break both body and spirit. But that is what they suffer, day after day – day after day. We can turn away from the suffering of others; we can put it out of our minds. We can say that it has nothing to do with us. But that is always wrong, ladies and gentlemen, because the suffering of others is something that does not go away if we simply turn the other way, if we ignore it. It is still there.’

  Emma was gazing up at one of the windows and at the effect of the light from the coloured glass. She looked across the aisle; a man had taken a woman’s hand and had squeezed it in unspoken reassurance. The woman turned to him and smiled, in gratitude for the gesture; she wore glasses with thick lenses. Emma thought: She’s just had bad news. Emma looked back up towards the window, and thought, inconsequentially, The properties of glass. She was still staring up at the window when the choir began to sing ‘Many waters cannot quench love’. She closed her eyes. She had forgotten about Frank and Jane. We can turn away from the suffering of others.

  She kept her eyes, closed. The choir was silent for a moment before they began their second song. It was about a turtle dove and love: ‘Though I go ten thousand miles, my dear, though I go ten thousand miles’. The song had the familiarity of something heard before and half-remembered. She opened her eyes. Harriet was staring at her.

  ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  ‘You seem sad.’

  ‘I’m not. I’m thinking.’ She paused. ‘I want to go now. Do you mind?’

  ‘But they’ve only just started.’

  ‘I know, but I want to go.’

  Harriet was not one to argue. They slipped out before the choir began again. Outside, the light seemed far too intense; it had been muted and diffuse in the chapel.

  ‘That was them,’ said Harriet. ‘That was definitely them.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Emma. She was no longer interested in Frank and Jane. They did not matter.

  ‘Now what?’ asked Harriet.

  Emma looked at her watch. ‘I don’t feel like doing anything in particular.’

  ‘We could go back to where we were due to meet the students,’ suggested Harriet. ‘We’ve got over an hour. We could wait.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Emma. ‘We could sit by the river.’

  On the way back, Harriet said to Emma, ‘Are you feeling sad?’

  Emma wanted to say no, but said yes instead.

  ‘Why?’ asked Harriet.

  Emma shrugged. She could not describe to Harriet what she felt, for she was not at all sure why she should suddenly and unexpectedly feel saddened. It might have been mourning that lay behind it; it might have been sorrow; it might have been regret for what she had done, for what she had failed to do; for wasted time, for arrogance and unkindness; for everything.

  In the bus on the way back, the students were conversing rowdily, in Italian, about their experiences in Cambridge.

  ‘They’re meant to speak English while they’re here,’ said Harriet. ‘But I can’t make them. Mrs God can, though. If she hears them talking Italian she shouts “English!” at them. It gives them a terrible fright.’

  Emma stared out of the window. She thought that she did not mind what the students did, or what Mrs God thought about it, or what Harriet said. But then Harriet remarked, ‘I’m going to wear your dress next week.’

  Emma was not particularly interested. ‘Good.’

  ‘I’ve had a very nice invitation,’ Harriet went on. ‘I’m going to Donwell Abbey. I’ve been invited for lunch.’

  Emma froze. ‘Donwell? George Knightley’s house?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Harriet. ‘He’s so nice. He invited me himself. Mrs God is going to take me over – she won’t stay, of course – she’ll come back and collect me later. I’ll wear my new cashmere and the suede ankle boots.’ There was a pause, before she added, ‘The ones you so generously bought me.’

  Emma said nothing. Whatever feelings had come over her while contemplating the stained glass at St John’s, this could not be allowed to happen. This had nothing to do with stained glass or light, or the transporting cadences of ‘The Turtle Dove’ as sung by a college choir; this was altogether different; this could not be ignored.

  She looked at Harriet, and for a brief moment their eyes met in what Emma decided was perfect understanding.

  21

  Mr Woodhouse could tell that something was wrong. ‘I may not be the most observant man in Norfolk,’ he said to Emma over breakfast, ‘but I cannot help but notice that something is … well, biting you. It’s not me, I hope.’

  Emma tried to make light of her father’s observation. ‘You, Pops, have never bitten anybody – as far as I am aware. Of course, one never knows – one’s parents may lead secret lives and be biting people left, right and centre, but in your case, I think not.’

  Mr Woodhouse reached for the marmalade. ‘Your bons mots are very bons, Emma, but they conceal nothing from me. You’re upset about something.’ A disturbing thought crossed his mind. ‘You aren’t unwell, are you? Sometimes a raised temperature can cause mood disturbances, you know. Are you sure you’re all right?’

  ‘Of course I am. I’m fine.’

  ‘You would tell me? You would let me know if your temperature went up, or anything like that?’

  She smiled benignly at her father. ‘Of course I would. It’s just that I’ve been thinking about my business and about how I need to make a start. I need to get more
samples.’

  That was true – to an extent. Emma had begun to weary of her empty summer and had already placed an advertisement in East Anglian Living offering her services as an ‘interior decorator and design consultant: kitchens, bathrooms, living rooms, bedrooms’. It had been a large advertisement, occupying half a page of the magazine, and she had been slightly concerned that some of its claims – such as the description of herself as an ‘award-winning designer’ – were slightly ambitious, or even misleading, although not completely untrue, if one considered the class prize in design at the University of Bath to be an award. It was, she told herself, every bit as much an award as any other prize that people won – even better, perhaps, as it was academic and not commercial.

  The advertisement, although placed, had yet to appear, and she was nervous as to what would follow. In her more pessimistic moments she imagined the conversation that might ensue if a client asked her about her experience in designing kitchens, which of course was non-existent.

  ‘You’ll have done plenty of kitchens before, of course. You’ll know the issues.’

  ‘Oh, the issues. Yes, I’m aware of those.’

  ‘Any photographs of your previous work?’

  ‘Not to hand, but let’s talk about what you have in mind. I’m very keen on islands in kitchens – as long as you put them in the right place.’

  ‘Photographs?’

  ‘Of islands? I can get some for you.’

  ‘No, of your work – your kitchens.’

  It made her feel uncomfortable even to think of it. Of course, she could always tell the truth and confess that there had been no previous kitchens; she could even make something of her inexperience. ‘My very first kitchen, you know, and I’m bursting with ideas.’ And then they would move on to the firmer ground of fabrics for the drawing room – ‘I suggest a subtle red – you’re north-facing, you know, and you can do with a warm colour.’

  ‘You know, I think you’re right about that.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  Yes, truth might be the answer; in which case she might be slightly dismissive of the advertisement: ‘Oh, that … the advertising people went a bit over-the-top, you know – made me sound so experienced, and I’m not really, but at least my charges won’t break the bank.’

  But it was not just these concerns over her incipient career that were responsible for Emma’s distracted state; there was something else worrying her that she would never confess to her father. This was her anxiety – not to say anger – over Harriet’s behaviour. She and Harriet had parted coolly at the end of the bus journey back from Cambridge. On her way home in the Mini Cooper, Emma had reflected on just how treacherous Harriet’s conduct had been. She – Emma – had raised Harriet from nothingness – and she was nothing – and introduced her to all sorts of people she would never have met on her own. She had gone to the trouble of lining up Philip Elton, even if that had not worked out; she had invited her to Hartfield; she had done a pastel portrait of her and had been prepared to pay for its framing; she had bought her an expensive cashmere jersey dress and a pair of suede ankle boots; she had helped her with her wretched foreign students and their gabbling on about the way to the railway station – and all for what? For Harriet to use the entrée – and the clothes – she had provided her with to set her cap at one of her oldest friends, George Knightley, who was far too decent and vulnerable to be able to defend himself against this sort of ambitious manoeuvre. How dare she! How dare she sit in her … her disused airfield and plot her assault on Donwell Abbey!

  She tried to imagine the consequences of a successful campaign by Harriet. George was not all that old and a difference of fourteen years or thereabouts in their ages was nothing. Harriet could well persuade him to marry her, and if that happened, she would be Mrs George Knightley of Donwell Abbey – the largest and most important house for miles around. Indeed, Donwell Abbey could hold its own with any large house in the county, including Sandringham. Of course Harriet would want that; of course she would. Emma thought grimly of the details. There would be a newspaper announcement of the engagement, and that would make people sit up and take notice. ‘The engagement is announced between Mr George Knightley of Donwell Abbey, elder son of the late Mr and Mrs Basil Knightley, and Miss Harriet Smith, of a disused airfield, daughter of the late Miss Smith and an unknown, but much-loved, donor.’ Hah! People would have a good laugh at that, but then they would think: That goes to show how far one can get if one’s ambitious enough. But then she thought: That’s not why I’m upset. I don’t care about property and money because I have plenty of both. What I care about is him. Just him.

  *

  It was not the advertisement, though, that brought Emma’s first commission, but something far closer to home. In fact, the commission came from virtually next door – from Miss Taylor and James. Ever since Miss Taylor had moved in with James, she had been planning to do something about Randalls and the general state of shabbiness into which it had fallen under James’s ownership. The barns and outbuildings were all kept in a very good state, of course, as James was a conscientious farmer, but when it came to the house he showed the indifference that men living on their own often have to their surroundings. The house had not been painted for almost fifteen years, no chairs had been re-covered in that time, nor carpets cleaned or repaired, and the plumbing arrangements in the cold and uncomfortable bathrooms would hardly have been out of place in a museum.

  ‘We need to get somebody in,’ said Miss Taylor. ‘We can’t do it by ourselves.’

  James did not see why not. ‘I don’t think you need an interior decorator,’ he said. ‘Just get a painter to come round and freshen things up, and a plumber of course. These plumber chaps are jolly good at ripping old stuff out. A couple of days’ work at the most.’

  ‘It’s not that simple,’ said Miss Taylor. ‘We have to replace all the curtains. We have to get new flooring for the bathrooms as well as new baths and whatnot. The kitchen has to be tackled from scratch.’

  James sighed, but he would deny Miss Taylor nothing. ‘Oh well, you’re the one with the good taste.’

  ‘You have it too,’ she said. ‘It requires very good taste indeed to live in a state of disrepair.’

  He laughed. ‘Genteel decline?’

  ‘Perhaps.’

  He was concerned about cost; the farm and the outbuildings were expensive – everything was expensive. ‘I suppose you’ll want some fancy Classic Interiors type to come prancing down here and charging the earth.’

  ‘No,’ said Miss Taylor. ‘I’ve had an idea. Emma. This is exactly what she wants to do. And she’s got a very good eye – she always has had.’

  James looked thoughtful. ‘And she won’t charge the earth?’

  ‘I’m sure her charges will be very modest – and we’ll be keeping it in the family, so to speak.’

  ‘In that case …’

  ‘Good. I’ll give her a ring.’

  Emma took no persuasion. She would do the job for nothing, she insisted, firmly refusing the offer of a fee. ‘After all,’ she said, ‘I’m not a real interior decorator – just yet.’ She had by now received consignments of samples from wallpaper and fabric companies, and these were loaded into the back of the Mini Cooper, along with paint charts, tiling booklets, and all the other accoutrements that served as the tools of her new trade. She was excited by the prospect of redecorating Randalls – a house that she had long admired but which she felt had been badly neglected. Her excitement was tempered, though, by the unavoidable prospect of seeing Frank, who was still staying at Randalls and whom she had last seen at that disastrous picnic. He had not apologised to her for stalking off in a huff when he failed to identify his own wine, and for her part she had felt that she had nothing to say sorry for: the incident had in no sense been her fault. But whatever view one took of that debacle, the fact remained that she and Frank were currently not on speaking terms and that any meeting at Randalls would probably be a fraught one.r />
  Miss Taylor came out to meet her when she parked the car at the head of the Randalls drive. ‘We’re going to do great things, Emma, you and I,’ she said. ‘This poor old house is going to be utterly transformed.’

  ‘V. exciting,’ said Emma, reverting to a favourite abbreviation of very she had used in her childhood.

  Miss Taylor lowered her tone conspiratorially. ‘But be careful not to frighten the male department,’ she said. ‘Everything needs to go – top to bottom – but you know how men are: they like to hang on to things.’

  Emma nodded. ‘I shall be v. tactful.’

  ‘I’m sure you will be,’ said Miss Taylor, although in reality she was not at all sure.

  They walked towards the house, the gravel of the driveway crunching underfoot in a satisfactory way. ‘I see ochre tones,’ said Emma. ‘I get a very strong feeling of ochre.’

  ‘Interesting,’ said Miss Taylor.

  ‘Except for the bathrooms,’ Emma continued. ‘I see white, and pale blue. Eggshell, perhaps.’

  Miss Taylor nodded. ‘One would not want ochre in a bathroom, I think.’

  They entered the house.

  ‘All of this will have to go,’ said Miss Taylor, gesturing towards the hunting prints that lined the walls of the hall. ‘And all that stuff too.’ This was the ungainly coat rack, the umbrella stand, the protruding hall table with its heavy Victorian legs, and an uncomfortable-looking oak hall chair on which a pile of old newspapers rested.

  Emma cast an eye about her. ‘I see one of those nice Farrow and Ball greens,’ she said. ‘Once we’ve thrown everything out, of course.’

  ‘V. good,’ said Miss Taylor.

  They went into the kitchen where Miss Taylor prepared Emma a cup of tea. There was discussion of the kitchen cupboards, which they both decided would have to go, and of the kitchen floor, which it was agreed would have to be taken up and replaced. Tea was poured, and it was just after this that the telephone rang. Miss Taylor took the call, and Emma indicated by pointing out of the door that she would take her tea into the conservatory adjoining the kitchen.