They sat in deep thought: Mrs Manfred secretly even more disturbed by Caleb Crowther’s crippling debts to the bank, which, although common knowledge below stairs, Mrs Crowther was totally and blissfully ignorant about; and Emma thinking how shattered Gregory would be on hearing Caleb Crowther’s plans.
‘Oh, Manny, do you think I should go to him?’ she asked now, feeling the greatest sympathy for him. ‘Do you think I ought to be there when he’s told?’ The thought of being in the same room as her uncle made Emma’s stomach turn. But she would be there if it might help Gregory.
‘No. You mustn’t even think of it, Emma!’ declared the older woman, with a hint of compassion in her voice. ‘It will be enough for him to cope with, child, without you being there to witness it all.’ Rising from her chair, she went to where Emma sat quite still and unsure as to what to do next. ‘Just be here when he gets home. He’ll tell you in his own good time,’ she advised, and Emma knew she was right.
After she had seen her dear, concerned friend out of the house, Emma closed the door and made her way down the passage. As she reached the parlour door, she heard a loud insistent knocking from upstairs and old Mrs Denton’s voice calling out, ‘Who’s that? Who’ve you been entertaining in my son’s absence, you little baggage!’ When the knocking grew even louder, seeming to bounce off the walls and shake the house, Emma pressed her hands to her ears and went into the scullery where the noise was not so terrible. For what seemed like ages, she leaned against the cold windowpane, staring out into the flagstoned yard and wondering what kind of mood her husband might be in when he came home that night.
At half-past six the meal of steak pudding and roast potatoes was ready. The kettle was boiling on the range and the table was laid. In its centre was a lighted candle which, together with the glow from the fire, made a warm, cozy atmosphere ready to lift the night chill from Gregory’s bones, while Emma waited to lift the spirit in his heart.
By half-past eight, the meal was ruined, the kettle almost dry and the candlelight flickering dangerously low. Several times, Emma had gone out into the cold night but there was no sign of Gregory. When old Mrs Denton began her persistent knocking and demanding her dinner at the top reaches of her voice, Emma took the remainder of the Sunday pork-roast from beneath the mesh cover in the larder and slicing four helpings of it, she made a plate of sandwiches and a pot of tea. These she put on a tray, then, feeling both frustrated and angry, she threw caution to the wind and climbed the stairs to her mother-in-law’s room – every step taken to the increasing volume of that witch-like shriek, which first demanded the whereabouts of its meal, then launched into a vicious attack on both the son who neglected her and Emma Grady who was ‘a trollop in fancy clothes.’
When, undaunted, Emma flung open the bedroom door, never once bringing her eyes to gaze on the source of that harsh, abusive voice, she was subjected to the vilest verbal attack she could ever have imagined, which finished with the demand, ‘GET OUT OF MY ROOM!’ A series of strangled cries followed which, to anyone else might suggest that the old lady was breathing her last, but which only told Emma that the crafty article was using every means at her disposal to rid herself of her unwelcome intruder. Emma acted as swiftly as possible, for she had no intention of staying in this room for one minute longer than was necessary. After placing the tray on the chair beside the bed, she went quickly from the room, breathing a sigh of relief as she closed the door behind her – just as the heavy brass bed-knob came hurtling through the air, to thud into the door with such force that it split the upper panel from top to bottom.
Downstairs, in the long silence which ensued, Emma thought that old Mrs Denton must be tucking into the sandwiches. ‘You old bugger!’ she said under her breath, feeling both indignant and amused at the old lady’s artfulness. Only once did Emma suspect that the silence might be ominous, but then she reminded herself of such games previously played by old Mrs Denton for her son’s punishment. ‘God doesn’t want you yet,’ Emma told her through the ceiling, ‘You’re too much of a handful!’
The mantelpiece clock struck nine and there was still no sign of Gregory. When, of a sudden, the knocking and abusive shouts began emanating from upstairs once again, Emma thought she’d go mad! Frantic, she threw her cloak about her shoulders and ran next door to Tilly Watson’s house.
‘Well o’ course I’ll come and keep an eye on the old ’un,’ Tilly said on Emma’s request. ‘The bairn’s not got a wink of sleep in him, an’ my old fellow’s gone off to one of them blessed meetings in the Thwaites pub near the Wharf.’ On learning that Emma intended to go out in search of her husband who had been given bad news concerning his own livelihood, she added, ‘I’ll bet my last farthing that you’ll find him in the pub along the Wharf an’ all!’ She added one more thing as Emma went on her way; it was a warning. ‘You watch yourself down that Wharf at this time of night, luv. There’s all manner of curious creatures roaming the streets in the dark hours!’ That said, she gave a loud shiver, pulled the bairn into her shawl, wrapped the shawl tighter about her slim figure and disappeared into the Denton household, slamming the door shut with such panic that the sound echoed after Emma as she hurried away down Montague Street. Another sound rent the quiet evening also. It was the same banshee wail which had haunted Emma all day. ‘Who’s that? Who’s banging the door? Answer me, you harlot!’ rang out the offensive tones of Emma’s mother-in-law.
Not certain whether Gregory might come home via Preston New Road or King Street, Emma made the decision to walk up King Street, along by Ainsworth Street and onto Eanam Wharf that way. If her uncle’s news had hit him harder than even she imagined, Emma believed it might just be possible that he had sought refuge in a public house. Such a thing would be quite contradictory to Gregory’s nature, Emma knew, but he had changed so much of late and had become so unpredictable that Emma thought Tilly Watson might just be right. At least, it was something to bear in mind.
Going straight to the Grady Mill along the Wharf, Emma noticed that there were no lights on at all – save for the cheery red glow from the night-watchman’s brazier. ‘Ow do, miss,’ he called out, rubbing his hands together over the fire, before doffing his cap as Emma drew nearer. ‘By! yer a brave ’un to be out on such a cold night, lass,’ he said through a large, toothless mouth. Then, on seeing that Emma was not the usual type of female to be seen loitering in the shadows along the Wharf, he added in a more serious voice, ‘T’ain’t a safe place round these parts after dark, lass. Yon pubs won’t be long afore they turn out, then there’ll be drunks and ruffians stalking about. Best be off ’ome, miss . . . where it’s safe.’
Emma thanked him for his concern, assuring him that she had no intention of staying out longer than was necessary. As she talked with the old fellow, she took off her mittens and warmed her frozen hands. ‘But I’m looking for my husband,’ she explained, while replacing her warmed mittens, fastening her bonnet tighter and drawing the cloak more snugly round her shoulders. ‘You might know him . . . his name is Mr Gregory Denton, and he’s the manager of this mill.’ She inclined her head towards the big iron gates behind him.
‘Oh aye!’ came the reply, ‘I knows Mr Denton right enough. But I ain’t seen ’im, miss.’ Here, he frowned hard and, rubbing his gloved fingers behind his ear as though scratching away a bothersome irritation, he went on, ‘That’s a shame about the closure, eh? . . . A right bloody shame! D’yer know, miss, there were folks as could a sworn by Mr Crowther keepin’ it open. But, like I telled ’em . . . when times is bad, we all on us get dragged into it! It don’t matter if yer a rich powerful fella, or a broken down-and-out, ’cause if yer can’t sell the goods, yer gets no brass. And if yer gets no brass . . . well, like I say, the world stops turnin’ an’ we’re all on us affected.’ He fell silent, slowly shaking his head from side to side and dropping it lower and lower until Emma could no longer see his face.
‘Goodnight,’ she said, hurrying away and wondering where to look next. The old nig
ht-watchman gave no reply, but shook his head all the more.
Coming out on to Penny Street, Emma paused beneath the gas lamp on the corner. She reached into the neck of her dress and withdrew the tiny, delicate watch that had been given to her by her papa. Then, holding it carefully between her finger and thumb, she raised it to the flickering light to see that the time was half-past nine. The public house which Tilly had referred to was further along Penny Street and so Emma immediately began making her way there.
‘Hello, darlin’ . . . looking for company are you?’ The voice came out of one of the darkened doorways, causing Emma to hurriedly look away and quicken her footsteps towards the bright windows of the public house, where the accordian music wafted into the night air and the merry sound of singing voices promised a safer haven.
Not daring to set foot in such a place, Emma stood on tiptoe in order to look through the windows. Her vision was impaired by the frosted pattern on the glass and the large words which read ‘Public Bar’ on the first window and ‘Snug’ on the second. Peering through a small corner below, where there was an area of clear glass, Emma’s view was still frustrated by the thick smoke screen and the wall of bodies inside. ‘Where are you, Gregory?’ she muttered through frozen lips, pressing her nose harder against the windowpane. Suddenly a cackle of laughter erupted from within and as Emma peered through the haze in search of her husband, the unmistakable figure of Sal Tanner rose before her. The next moment, the laughing figure was hoisted on to one of the tables by a bevy of reaching, grasping hands. The music took on a more urgent note and the hands all began clapping as Sal Tanner executed a frenzied dance – showing her pink, grinning gums at one end and her pink, dimpled thighs at the other. The whole spectacle was that much more comical because of Sal’s pronounced limp, which had the effect of throwing her off balance in a most peculiar yet rhythmic manner.
Dropping from her tiptoes, Emma moved away from the window to lean back against the wall, the cold air seeming to have penetrated every inch of her body. She knew the time must by now be approaching ten o‘clock and some deeper instinct made her suspect that Gregory might have come to harm. ‘He would never stay out till this hour without telling me where he was,’ she muttered to herself, a part of her feeling desperate enough to go into the public house where she could at least satisfy herself as to whether or not he was there. Yet, there was an even greater urge within her to run from that place, and to get home safely. Before Emma could decide what to do for the best, the decision was abruptly taken out of her hands.
‘Bloody hell! Look at this, lads! We’ve got the buggers queuing up at the door for us, eh?’ If the voice was gruff, its owner was even more so. The burly, unshaven fellow all but fell out of the pub doorway on to the spying Emma who, on hearing the loud and drunken revellers emerge, had tried to wedge herself behind the large concrete mullion which surrounded the entrance. Unfortunately, she was quickly spotted by this burly fellow who, though he appeared to have the weight and size of an elephant, possessed the small beady eyes of a shrew. As his hand pounced on her shoulder and drew her out, Emma vehemently protested. At the sound of her voice, another of the group lurched forward to look at her. Emma was shocked to see who it was. ‘Gregory!’ she cried, shaking herself free from the big fellow’s grasp and rushing forward. Her first sensation at seeing him was utter relief; her first thought was to get him home as quickly as possible. To this end, she began looking up and down the street for a carriage. ‘I’ve been searching everywhere for you!’ she told him, preparing to take his arm. As she smiled up at him, he stared down at her, a drunken frown on his face.
‘See that, fellas?’ shouted another of the group. ‘His little wifey’s come ter find ’im!’ There followed tumultuous laughter and taunts of ‘Aw! Did thi mammy lose yer, eh? The little woman wants ter tuck ’im in his little bed!’
‘Shut it, you fools!’ Not only were the men taken aback by Gregory Denton’s acid tone, but so was Emma! Now he turned on her, and as he bent to deliver his instructions, the stench of booze on his breath was so powerful that it turned her stomach. ‘Get off home!’ he told her. ‘I don’t want you here . . . I don’t need you to come looking for me like I was a bloody kid!’ He gave a cruel laugh, saying, ‘Oh, but happen you look on me as a kid, because you ain’t got any of your own, eh?’ His voice fell to a whisper, so low that only Emma could hear it and so vicious that it made her heart tremble. ‘Oh, but it ain’t been for want of trying. Oh no! But you see . . . I’m no good as a man, am I? If I was, then you’d have been with child months ago! I ain’t got the ability to make a bairn. And I ain’t got the ability to keep my work. I’m no good either way. I’m useless, d’you see?’ He lifted his hands to her shoulders and, to the delight of his cronies, he began shaking her.
‘Stop it!’ Emma was mortified by his words. But now she was even more determined to get him home, because to leave him in such a drunken state with such low company, was more abhorrent to her than was his verbal attack, which in her heart she knew was the drink talking. Emma had been horrified to discover that the very sentiments which had been going through her mind regarding their childless state, had been torturing her husband even more. He had been thinking it was due to his inadequacies as a man, while Emma had been equally convinced that it was her fault.
‘Are yer coming with us, or are yer running off home like a good little lad?’ Once again, the other men fell into uproarious laughter, whereupon Gregory shook Emma all the harder. ‘I’ve told you,‘ he said, ‘I don’t need you following me, making me look even less of a bloody man! Take yourself off home.’ That said, he turned to fall in with the others as they made their way along Penny Street to the next ale-house, all stumbling about in the same witless but merry state – all except one, for Gregory Denton was a bitter and sorry man, who saw the drink not as a friend, but as a means of forgetting his own shortcomings.
‘I’m not going home without you!’ Emma called out, pursuing them down the street. ‘I won’t!’ Somehow, she felt responsible for him. Maybe it was because of the guilt she always carried for not being able to love him in the way a woman should love her husband.
Hearing Emma’s cry, Gregory Denton came to a halt, turned sharply and, encouraged by the other revellers, came hurrying back towards her on fast, angry footsteps. At first, Emma was delighted because she thought he had decided to accompany her home after all. But on seeing how swiftly he came towards her and, as he drew nearer, realizing the thunderous expression on his usually kindly face, she halted in her tracks. As he came to within arms reach of her and the street lamp bathed his face in its trembling yellow glow, Emma was actually frightened to see the fury on Gregory’s features. ‘Will you not be bloody told!’ he snapped, at the same time bringing the flat of his hand hard against her head with such a spiteful swing that it sent her reeling towards the wall. ‘Now perhaps you’ll do as I say!’ he told her through clenched teeth and whereupon, hardly glancing back at her, he rejoined the others to quickly disappear down Penny Street, into Eanam and out of sight.
Dazed from the force of the blow to her head and desperately trying to stem the flow of blood from her nose, Emma leaned on the wall for support. Her thoughts were in turmoil and her heart was in shock. She would never have believed it possible that drink could change a man so much. Yet, as she recalled Gregory’s every word, his every mood over these past weeks, Emma realized that it wasn’t simply the drink that had changed him, it was fear, and, because she herself had known that same destructive emotion, she could perhaps understand at least a little of what he was going through. But whether she could forgive him for his treatment of her this night was something else. For now, however, she must make her way back to Montague Street, and leave Gregory to come home when he was ready.
Emma dabbed the blood-stained handkerchief to her face and seeing that the flow of blood had stopped, she found a corner in the cotton square with which she scrubbed her face clean. She then straightened the bonnet which had be
en knocked askew and, with her head throbbing painfully, she emerged on to the kerb from where she cast her gaze up and down the street. ‘I must find a carriage,‘ she thought, beginning to walk along the narrow pavement. Feeling as ill as she did, Emma was sure she could not make the long trek back to Montague Street on foot. Furthermore, the night was pitch-dark and dismal, and Emma was mindful of the danger she could be in at this hour of the night and in this particular area. As she walked along, only once did her thoughts stray to forbidden territory, and that was when she felt briefly tempted to turn the corner into Eanam Wharf, where she suspected Marlow’s barge might be moored. Quickly, and with a rush of guilt, she dismissed these thoughts, but, in doing so, she felt only sadness in her heart.
As Emma came towards the top of Penny Street, she was relieved to see a number of carriages crossing Ainsworth Street and beyond that the street lamps seemed brighter. But she was still a long way off yet and here, between one public house and the next, it was uncomfortably dark. Alarmed, she quickened her footsteps, at the same time becoming aware of the resounding tap-tap of her boot-heels, which rent the night air with a disturbing echo.
Emma was so intent on escaping the dark area of Penny Street that she did not hear the footsteps which crept stealthily up behind her. The moment they were on her, it was too late! Emma felt herself being swung round and even as she opened her mouth to scream, a hand was clapped roughly over her face, smothering the sound and striking a greater fear into Emma’s heart than she had ever known before. She was propelled harshly against the wall and in the brief glimpse she caught of her attacker’s face as he thrust her away from the glow of the gas lamp, Emma was horrified to see that it was the same unshaven burly fellow who had been in Gregory’s company earlier and who had got such satisfaction out of the humiliation she’d been made to suffer.
‘Oh what a little beauty you are!’ he murmured in a low trembling voice as he pinned her against the wall with one hand, keeping her mouth covered with the other and bending his coarse face to brush against her neck. The more Emma struggled, the more excited he became by it and the harder she pummelled at him with her small clenched fists, the more it amused him. ‘’E’s a fool, your man,‘ he muttered in a drunken breath, ’but if ’e don’t want yer . . . I do!’ Now, using the brute strength of his enormous body to pin her fast against the wall, he raised the hand which had been holding her and, with spiteful force, ripped the bonnet from her head and threw it contemptuously away, afterwards grabbing at the coil of hair so beautifully curled into the nape of Emma’s slender neck. When her hair came tumbling freely about her shoulders, he began stroking it and frenziedly thrusting himself against her body, all the while moaning and clutching at her clothes as if he were about to tear every shred from her back. ‘I won’t hurt yer,’ he murmured, wiping his open mouth up and down her neck until Emma feared she would die or lose her senses and be even more at his mercy. As it was, the hand across her face desperately impaired her breathing and she was growing weaker by the second. She had to get free. She must get free! But how? Oh, dear God, how?
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