It was October and Emmy was sitting on the end of her bed in the tiny attic room she shared with Diana and Becky, painting her nails with shell-pink varnish and trying to concentrate on Carl’s impending visit. She had fallen into the habit of spending every other weekend in Llandudno with the Frosts, though she was always careful not to be away when Carl’s ship was due to dock. She was fond of both young men and had not been at all shocked when Carl had confessed to a previous girlfriend called Cissie Malone; nor had she minded that Carl had taken the girl to the theatre whilst she had been in Llandudno. However, she had realised it would be wiser to confine her weekends away to times when the Cleopatra was not in port. She did not do this because she was afraid of Carl’s renewing his friendship with Cissie, but because she knew how eagerly he looked forward to their time together. At least, that was what she told herself. Beryl had chided her with having both young men on a string, but she had assured her friend that this was not the case. ‘I’ve been ill and shut away in the sanatorium for three years, remember,’ she had said reproachfully. ‘I’m biding my time until I’ve decided what course the rest of my life is going to take. Is that so wrong? After all, it isn’t as though either Johnny or Carl lives just around the corner; I don’t see either of them that often.’
But now, sitting on her bed, and listening for Carl’s knock at the door, she was beginning to believe that it was time she made up her mind. The fact that Diana was so very keen on her marrying Johnny naturally weighted the scales in his favour, for life would be much easier if Diana approved of her choice. On the other hand, Emmy had taken a good hard look at herself recently, and had been forced to face some home truths. Johnny was a thoroughly nice young man, full of good intentions and certainly very fond of her, but he was not assertive and had very little self-confidence.
However, she had grown to love the town of Llandudno, with its beautiful beach, wonderful views from the Great Orme, and entrancing countryside. She enjoyed helping in the guest house and being fussed over by Carrie Frost, but the more she visited, the more she realised that Johnny himself was quite a small part of the attraction the visits held for her. If I’m honest, she told herself now, am I considering marrying him simply in order to have the sort of life I enjoy? And how long would I go on enjoying it if I was sharing it with a man who sought my approval – and that of his aunt – before every move he made?
It was a pity that Diana didn’t really like Carl very much and was so fond of Johnny, or appeared to be so, but the child would be twelve next birthday and one day, in the not too distant future, she would be considering marriage on her own account. If I deny myself a husband to suit Diana, it won’t stop her going off when she meets a man of her own, Emmy reminded herself. Beryl always tells me to consult my heart and marry for love – as I did with Peter – and I should do just that. Carl reminds me of Peter, and yet . . . and yet . . . I know! I’ll ask Mr Mac if I can have a word. He’s far more experienced than I, even though he’s never been married himself. Why, all the girls ask his advice when they’re in any sort of trouble, and he’s been a real friend to me. Though he doesn’t know either Carl or Johnny personally, I’ve talked so much about both of them to him that his advice would be well worth taking.
And when, presently, she heard Carl’s knock on the door, she felt a flutter of real excitement and a sort of glow which, she told herself, might be the first stirrings of a warmer feeling towards him, for she was vaguely aware that she did not actually love either Johnny or Carl; not yet, at any rate. However, she knew she had not truly loved Peter until they had been married for several months, so this did not worry her. Love came as a result of being together and getting to know the other person, she concluded. It was awfully romantic to think that love came first, but it was not her experience. Perhaps I’m cold, she thought rather dolefully, since most girls fall in love before marriage and not after. But if I am, men don’t seem to notice. Cheered by the reflection, she ran lightly down the stairs.
She reached the front door just as Beryl emerged from the kitchen, dusting flour off her hands. ‘It’s all right, Beryl,’ Emmy said breathlessly, tugging the door open. ‘It’ll be Carl; the Cleopatra is due to dock today, and—’ She stopped short, rendered speechless by surprise. The man standing on the doorstep, smiling at her, was not Carl Johansson, nor was it Johnny Frost. It was Mr Mac.
To say that Emmy was taken aback was putting it mildly; she was truly astonished. Mr Mac had sent messengers round to Nightingale Court several times, asking if she could do an extra shift, or some such thing, but he had never actually visited No. 4 before. So now she stood and stared at him, then hastily remembered her manners. ‘I’m so sorry, Mr Mac. I was expecting . . . but that doesn’t matter. Won’t you come in?’
She said the words without the slightest expectation of his accepting the invitation. She thought he would shake his head, deliver some message or other, and leave. Instead, he mounted the three steps, saying as he did so: ‘I’m sorry to intrude, Mrs Wesley, but I rather wanted a word.’
‘You aren’t intruding, Mr Mac,’ Emmy said warmly. He was her employer, her boss, yet insidiously, over the years they had known one another, he had become a good and reliable friend. She had no idea why he had come here – it was probably something to do with work – but as she led him into the parlour, she realised that this was the ideal opportunity to ask him for his advice about Johnny and Carl.
So she bade him sit down in one of the rather stiff parlour chairs, and asked him if he would like a cup of tea. Mr Mac shook his head, his eyes twinkling. ‘No, thank you, Mrs Wesley. I mustn’t take up too much of your time. I came along to tell you that Mrs Chamberlain will be leaving us next week to go and live with her married daughter at Great Sutton. I wondered if you would make a collection amongst the staff – and any customers who know her, of course – and then buy a suitable gift on our behalf. Normally, my mother would undertake this task, but, as you know, she hasn’t been too well recently and we thought you would make a very good substitute. You have excellent taste and have known Mrs Chamberlain for some time, so you may be able to choose something to please her.’
Emmy had sat down opposite Mr Mac, and now she agreed readily to undertake the task, though she could not help wondering why Mr Mac had approached her at home rather than at work. Maggie Chamberlain was the charlady who cleaned and washed up in the kitchens and it would have been simple enough for Mr Mac to call Emmy into his office, rather than come all the way round to Nightingale Court.
Mr Mac must have had a shrewd idea of what she was thinking, for he smiled again, then leaned forward in his chair. ‘Yes, Mrs Wesley, I could easily have asked you this tomorrow at work, but the fact is, I have another favour to ask. Mother and I have been talking for some time about the possibility of buying a small property in some pleasant suburb. Living over the shop is convenient in many ways, but it is not ideal. Mother is almost seventy-five and is finding the stairs increasingly difficult. What is more, she feels we are both too much “on call” whilst we’re living in the flat, and she would love a little garden of her own. I don’t intend to retire, but I would certainly hope to work perhaps a three- or four-day week, and to take proper holidays. If we lived in the suburbs, the countryside would not be as inaccessible as it is at present, so we should be able to enjoy days out without feeling that the business would suffer in our absence.’
‘But it would – suffer, I mean,’ Emmy said, rather wildly. She realised that she could not imagine Mac’s without Mr Mac, so to speak. He was a quiet man; she had never known him shout at a member of staff or throw his weight about. He treated delivery boys and important customers with the same quiet friendliness, and even when things went wrong and everyone else was shouting or weeping or bewailing their fate, Mr Mac was cool, calm and collected, often even amused, pointing out that no one is perfect and that problems, if faced without fuss, usually disappeared. ‘Even when you’re only away for a day, Mr Mac, things seem to go wrong. Though your mother is awfully good, of course,’ she added hastily.
Mr Mac smiled. ‘Well, naturally, I could scarcely leave the business without appointing a deputy – a sort of manager – to keep the place running on an even keel,’ he admitted. ‘So I was thinking . . .’
But a ghastly thought had occurred to Emmy. ‘Oh, Mr Mac, if you were thinking that I could act as manageress in your absence, then please don’t ask me, because I just know I couldn’t possibly do it,’ she said breathlessly. ‘The – the responsibility . . . telling the staff what to do . . . buying ingredients . . . talking to tradesmen . . . I couldn’t do it; I think it would kill me!’
‘Dear me, Mrs Wesley, how you leap to conclusions,’ Mr Mac said mildly, but Emmy saw, to her relief, that he was smiling. ‘I wouldn’t dream of burdening you – or any other young person of your age – with such a job. I’ve already approached a cousin of mine. He’s actually a bookkeeper, and a very good one, too, but the firm which employs him is moving its head office to Manchester and he has no desire to go with it. I haven’t told anyone else at Mac’s about my plans, nor shall I do so until everything is cut and dried, but I had to tell you because I’m hoping you will accompany me to look over some houses. Monday is a quiet day at Mac’s, so I have no qualms about leaving Millie in charge. Young Ada is proving very reliable on the cash desk, and since it is your day off it seemed an ideal opportunity – unless you have some other pressing engagement? Mother says she will be perfectly satisfied with whatever I choose, but I’d feel very much happier to have a woman’s opinion before committing myself.’ He fished in his pocket and produced a sheaf of papers. ‘There are five properties here which sound quite suitable, so if you feel you could give me the pleasure of your company, we will hire a taxi and take a look at them.’
Emmy was in a dilemma. Mr Mac was a true friend and one on whom she could rely, but Carl would be arriving at any moment, expecting her to spend the rest of the day with him. However, the lure of looking over five houses was strong, and to be honest, she suddenly realised that Mr Mac’s proposed expedition would be a good deal more relaxing than the sort of outing which Carl enjoyed. Carl would be charming, amusing and energetic, whisking her from place to place, showing off a little, demanding her attention. Mr Mac, on the other hand, would be his usual quiet, companionable self, making no demands, not trying to impress her, simply asking her opinion on each of the houses they visited.
Emmy looked across at Mr Mac and made up her mind. ‘What woman could resist the chance to examine another woman’s house?’ she said gaily. ‘Of course I’ll come, Mr Mac. If you’ll just wait here a moment, I’ll tell Beryl and then we can leave.’
She shot into the kitchen and explained, in a hasty gabble, what Mr Mac wanted. Beryl raised her eyebrows, giving a tight little smile as she did so. ‘Well, well, well,’ she said slowly. ‘So what do I say to Mr Johansson when he calls? And suppose you walk slap bang into him as you turn into Raymond Street? I know he couldn’t tell you what time he would arrive, but he did say he hoped to be with you today.’
‘Oh, Beryl, I know it sounds awful but he is my boss and he’s been most awfully good to me,’ Emmy said, rather reproachfully. ‘If you explain to Carl that I’ve been unexpectedly called away, I’m sure he’ll understand. Tell him to come back around seven this evening and we can go to a flick, or a dance, or something. Only – only I wouldn’t want to let Mr Mac down.’
‘No, I see that,’ Beryl acknowledged and Emmy saw, with relief, that her friend was smiling, so she could not disapprove entirely of her choice. ‘Off you go then; we’ll see you back here around six, I dare say?’
‘Yes, I should think so,’ Emmy said, heading for the kitchen door. Having explained her actions to Beryl, she felt almost light-headed with relief, though as she and Mr Mac left the house she scuttled across the court with her eyes on the ground, as if Carl might suddenly materialise before her, demanding to know what she was doing when she should have been awaiting his arrival.
Once on Raymond Street, Mr Mac approached a taxi cab standing by the kerb. He explained, as he handed Emmy in, that he had come by cab and had asked the man to wait, and Emmy, settling comfortably on the long leather seat, dismissed Carl from her mind. She would enjoy today, knowing that she was helping Mr Mac, who had so often helped her.
‘Well, what a day we’ve had, Mrs Wesley,’ Mr Mac said, as they emerged from the last house and crossed the pavement to the waiting taxi. ‘I know you didn’t want to stop for lunch but, quite frankly, if I don’t have something to eat soon, I shall probably faint away. Tell you what, we’ll get down to the serious business of which house – if any – we prefer over a nice high tea. What do you say to that, eh?’
Emmy beamed at him. She had had a marvellous day, though it had embarrassed her at first that every householder had assumed she was Mrs McCullough. But once the first lady had made the mistake, Mr Mac had taken matters firmly into his own hands, introducing Emmy as an old friend who was deputising for his mother, who was, unfortunately, rather poorly. In the third place they had visited, which was a very large house indeed, the owner had been full of questions and Mr Mac had told her, rather shortly, that he was hoping to get married some time in the near future and needed a larger house than the one he had at present. As soon as they were back on the pavement, Emmy had put the inevitable question, for she felt completely at ease with him and had seen the twinkle in his eye as the woman had stared from one to the other.
‘And just who are you thinking of marrying, Mr Mac?’ she asked roguishly. ‘It’s the first I’ve heard of it – my, that would give the girls something to talk about!’
Mr Mac laughed with her. ‘Next, you’ll be saying you didn’t realise my flat was really a house,’ he said. ‘But why are you so surprised at the thought of my marrying? I’m not that old, you know, though I suppose forty-two sounds very ancient to a young girl like yourself, still in her twenties.’
‘Not so young any more, alas,’ Emmy said, mournfully. ‘I’m thirty-two next year so I’m catching you up fast. But I don’t know why I’m telling you. As my employer, you must be well aware how old I am.’
‘Well, you don’t look a day over twenty-nine,’ Mr Mac said. ‘Now where shall we go for this high tea, eh?’
‘You choose. I’m sure you know all there is to know about cafés and restaurants, seeing as you’re in the business yourself,’ Emmy said, rather guardedly. She did hope that Mr Mac would not choose somewhere in the centre of town where they might bump into Carl. Of course, she had every right to go out with Mr Mac, particularly as Carl had been unable to tell her at what time of day he would visit her, but she still felt rather guilty; she had been happy enough in the past to wait for him, knowing that he would be along eventually. She supposed she should have refused the invitation to high tea, but she was very hungry and anyway she still wanted to consult Mr Mac about Johnny and Carl. What better time would there be to put her problem before him? It was difficult to talk personally at work, and anyway Emmy’s problem had nothing to do with the restaurant. Accordingly, she agreed to let him take her to his favourite tea rooms, and explained that she had a problem which she wanted to discuss with him.
So when the taxi headed away from the city centre and out towards the Wirral, Emmy suffered only the slightest pang of conscience. She might be later back than she had anticipated but the brilliant autumn foliage on the trees, and the soft golden light as the sun sank in the sky, made the trip a memorable one. She and Mr Mac chatted quietly about the merits and demerits of the houses they had seen and, when asked for her opinion, Emmy gave it frankly. ‘They say a girl has to kiss a lot of frogs before she finds her prince,’ she remarked sagely. ‘And by the same token, you’ll have to see a lot more houses before you make up your mind. The first two places we saw were totally unsuitable, you said so yourself. They were cramped and overlooked, with back yards instead of gardens. And the third . . . well, it had been let go and the smell of damp in the bedrooms was enough to put anyone off. The one in Cecil Road out at Seaforth was quite nice, but you thought there was a problem with the drains, didn’t you? And the last one would have been all right only the kitchen was downright poky and they’d not installed a bathroom.’ Emmy looked curiously about her as the houses grew further and further apart. ‘Where are we going, Mr Mac?’ She laughed. ‘I hope you aren’t aiming to kidnap me, or send me off to South America for the white slave trade, because I told Beryl I’d probably be home by six.’
As she spoke, the taxi drew to a halt in a pretty village, where the houses crowded close to the main street, many of them very old, some with bow windows and others with plate glass. Emmy looked out and saw that the nearest cottage had a sign over the window which read: The Lilacs – Miss Ethel’s Tea Rooms. Mr Mac climbed out and went round to open the passenger door. He indicated the tea rooms with a jerk of his head. ‘I can’t see Miss Ethel as a part of the white slave trade,’ he said, smiling broadly. ‘And I don’t think she belongs to a kidnap gang, either. But she does make the most delicious parkin, as well as the best scones I’ve ever tasted.’
Presently, Emmy and Mr Mac were seated at a window table whilst a neat little waitress, in a flowered dress and a frilly apron, trotted to and fro, carrying a heavily laden tray and placing all manner of dainties on the highly polished oak table. There was a set high tea which started off with poached eggs on toast, surrounded by crisply curling bacon, and included a plate full of tiny sandwiches with a variety of fillings, finishing up with home-made cream cakes and the famous parkin. Emmy sighed with admiration; all the china was Royal Albert and the cutlery was silver-plated and gleaming. This was the sort of place to which Peter had introduced her, years ago. She smiled across at her companion and took a sip from her teacup. ‘This is absolutely lovely,’ she said appreciatively. ‘Doesn’t it make you want to own something similar, Mr Mac? After all, there’s nothing you don’t know about catering and I’m sure you could run a place like this standing on your head.’
Mr Mac laughed. ‘Look around you,’ he invited. ‘I couldn’t afford to run a place like this, Mrs Wesley. What would the dining rooms in the city look like at this hour, eh?’
Emmy thought of the dining rooms at around this time. Every table would be full and the waitresses would be rushing backwards and forwards, bearing plates laden with steaming food and trays crammed with cups of tea, whilst someone would be wheeling a trolley full of various cakes and noting down, on her pad, which table had taken what. ‘I see what you mean; but if you owned this place, Mr Mac, you’d know how to fill every table, instead of only two.’ For the fact was, there was only one other table occupied in the spacious tea rooms.
Mr Mac shook his head sadly. ‘Mrs Wesley, where is your business acumen? The only way to fill a place like this would be to move it into the city centre. And then, of course, it would lose almost all its appeal. No, I shan’t open a country tea rooms until I’m too old to run Mac’s. Now, you said you had a problem. Are you going to share it with me?’
Emmy, tucking into poached egg on toast, outlined her dilemma in a rather muffled voice, whilst Mr Mac listened thoughtfully, eating his own eggs in a leisurely fashion as he did so. After some thought, he gave his opinion with all his usual forthrightness. ‘I don’t believe you should make any hasty decisions, since in my opinion you aren’t at all sure of your own feelings and marriage, as you must know, is probably the most important event in a woman’s life – or a man’s, for that matter. If you make a mistake now, I can promise you that you will regret it for the rest of your days. So don’t act hastily. Take your time.’
‘I know all that,’ Emmy said, trying not to sound impatient. ‘But I’ve known these two fellers for years now . . . well, I knew Johnny Frost when we were just a couple of kids . . . and I feel I can’t keep them hanging about for a decision any longer. I’ve been visiting Johnny in Llandudno and I’ve been really happy there but – but I don’t think my happiness comes from being with Johnny so much as being in a beautiful town and enjoying helping Mrs Frost in the guest house. Johnny’s an old friend – I was going to marry him until I met Peter – but I’m not sure that friendship’s enough.’
‘It isn’t,’ Mr Mac said briefly. ‘I don’t mean to embarrass you, Mrs Wesley, but as you know, I’m a practical man and believe in calling a spade a spade. You have to be in love with someone to marry them and it’s pretty clear that you don’t love Mr Frost. How do you feel about Mr Johansson? You’ve scarcely mentioned him.’
‘Oh! Well, he’s awfully nice. He takes me about and makes a big fuss of me—’ Emmy began, only to be interrupted by Mr Mac, who gave something perilously akin to a snort. ‘Awfully nice!’ he said scornfully. ‘If you were in love with Mr Johansson, you wouldn’t say he was “awfully nice”. Unless you are marrying for the convenience of having a partner, someone to help you manage your life and bring up your child, then you should love him with all your heart and soul.’ She saw that he was almost glaring at her. ‘Why do you think I have not considered marriage until now, Mrs Wesley? It is because I regard it as the most important thing in life and want to be very sure that the woman I love loves me with equal intensity.’
Emmy was so surprised that she could only gape. She had never thought of her boss as anything but a friend and employer, but now she realised that a romantic and passionate heart was hidden behind his practical, sensible exterior. ‘And – and you’re considering marriage now?’ she said, unable to keep the incredulity out of her tone. ‘I had no idea . . . no one at work has ever said anything about – about you having – well, a friend even. Is – is that why you’re thinking of moving out of the flat? But if so, why didn’t your young lady accompany you today instead of myself? I’m sure she won’t be interested in my opinions . . . she might even be cross that you’ve consulted me. Oh dear, if only I’d known . . .’
Across the table, Mr Mac smiled. ‘She knew all about today and I can assure you she will have every opportunity to choose the house which suits her best,’ he said reassuringly. ‘But back to your own problem. You’ll know the old saying marry in haste and repent at leisure, I’m sure. I can see you’ve already decided that marrying Mr Frost might be a mistake, and in my opinion at least, you are not yet sure enough of your feelings to marry Mr Johansson. In fact, you hardly know him, do you? He comes back to Liverpool, takes you out a few times, and then he’s off again. I think you need to be with someone on a more permanent basis before you consider marriage.’
By now, they were at the cake stage and Emmy agreed, reluctantly, that she did not know Mr Johansson as well as she knew Johnny Frost. ‘It’s true that we’ve never spent longer than a couple of days in each other’s company,’ she admitted. ‘And I suppose you’re right. What’s more, Diana really dislikes him, which does make things difficult.’ She sighed, pushing a wing of bright hair off her forehead and tucking it behind her ear. ‘I really envy you, Mr Mac; you haven’t made a fuss or asked for advice, you’ve just found the right person for you and I know you’ve hit the nail on the head: neither Mr Frost nor Mr Johansson is my Mr Right, and it’s time I told them so. And yet . . . and yet . . . I can’t hang on Beryl’s sleeve for ever and if I stop seeing them . . . I shall be most awfully lonely.’
‘There’s no reason why you should stop seeing either of them,’ Mr Mac said reasonably. ‘Just don’t commit yourself, that’s all I’m saying. And now, how about another cup of tea? I could do with one.’
When Emmy returned home, it was past eight o’clock and Mr Johansson had been and gone. ‘He weren’t very pleased, queen,’ Beryl told her, a trifle reproachfully. ‘He arrived at three o’clock, full of plans, and waited till half past four in the hope that you’d come home early. I explained as best I could, made him a cup of tea and gave him a slice of cake. And then he went off, but he come back at six, ’cos that was when you said you’d be home, an’ stayed till seven. He’s only in port till noon tomorrow, but he said he’d come round in the morning if he possibly could, even if he only stays for an hour.’
‘Oh! Oh, but Beryl, I promised Mr Mac that I’d take a look in all the estate agents on my way to work, and pick up details of any houses that I thought were suitable,’ Emmy said, dismayed. She was on the noon until eight shift and guessed that Mr Mac would await her arrival at work with additional eagerness because of the errand she had promised to undertake for him. ‘Oh, whatever shall I do?’ She looked appealingly at Beryl, but if she hoped for sympathy she was out of luck.
‘Really, queen, you behave very thoughtless at times. You knew Mr Johansson were here for a couple o’ days and you must have told him you weren’t working tomorrow till noon, so you don’t have no choice. I’m sorry, but you’ve got to be here tomorrow mornin’, whether Mr Johansson turns up or not. And if he does come, you’ll have some explainin’ to do, I don’t mind tellin’ you. Oh, I know Mr Mac is your employer,’ she added, as Emmy started to speak, ‘but that’s neither here nor there. You let that young feller down today, but you aren’t goin’ to do it twice.’
‘Yes, I do see what you mean,’ Emmy said, in a small voice. ‘I’ll just have to explain to Mr Mac when I get in to work. But suppose Mr Johansson doesn’t come? Then I’ll have wasted my morning off and let Mr Mac down as well.’ She looked hopefully across the table at her friend, for they were sitting in the kitchen, sharing a pot of tea before going to bed. ‘Suppose – suppose I left you with a message that I’d be in the Kardomah Café at eleven, say, or . . . or—’
‘No, Emmy,’ Beryl said grimly. ‘It’s time you grew up, young woman, and learned that other people’s feelings matter just as much as your own; more, sometimes. You should have seen that young man’s face when he left here this evening.’
Emmy began to answer but a quick glance at Beryl’s expression stopped her in her tracks. She knew that she was being both selfish and cruel, and I’m neither, really, she told herself, a trifle guiltily. The fact is, I’ve made up my mind that I’m not going to remarry, but I’ll be needing my job for a long while yet. That’s why I’m behaving so badly; it’s not because I’m a nasty person.
She explained all this to Beryl, who leaned across the table and patted her shoulder before heaving herself to her feet. ‘It’s all right, queen. I know you don’t mean no harm, it’s just that you’ve been spoiled rotten,’ she said. ‘Your being so ill didn’t help, either. As for Mr Johansson, when he sees you tomorrow, looking so pretty and telling him how sorry you were to miss him, he’ll forgive you. And now let’s get to bed before I drop in me tracks; tomorrow’s another day, so we might as well get what rest we can before tackling it.’
When she finally got to bed, however, Emmy found it difficult to fall asleep. Although she had tried to hide it – and thought she had succeeded – she had been dismayed, as well as surprised, to learn that Mr Mac meant to marry. It had been bad enough when he had told her that he meant to live away from the restaurant and appoint a deputy to take his place so that he could have more time to himself. Emmy remembered the rare occasions on which both Mr Mac and his mother had been away at the same time, and the chaos which usually resulted. Oh, it was not the sort of chaos that the customers noticed – the staff’s training saw to that – but behind the scenes there was a good deal of shouting, tears were freely shed, orders were muddled and the cooks grew short-tempered.
But a wife would change everything. A married man, particularly one newly married, would want to spend time in his new home, and the wife would naturally come in and out of the restaurant as of right. Knowing nothing about the business would not stop her giving her opinion and trying to change things. New brooms, Emmy reflected bitterly, always swept clean, they say, and the last thing she fancied was some masterful young woman lording it over her and the rest of the staff. She could see the new Mrs Mac in her mind’s eye; she would be a bottle blonde, hard-faced but handsome, probably in her mid to late thirties and fond of dressy clothes, the sort that cost a lot but don’t last long.
The picture thus conjured up was so unpleasant that Emmy hastily banished it from her mind, telling herself severely that Mr Mac was far too nice to make such a dreadful mistake. No, his wife would be plump and cuddly, with a gentle expression and a sweet smile. She would potter about the restaurant being everyone’s best friend and would never interfere, in any way, with the running of her husband’s business.
This picture of the new Mrs Mac, however, did not seem convincing. The boss did not pick plain, plump little waitresses, so why should he go for a plain, plump little wife? Tossing and turning in her small bed, Emmy eventually decided that it was no use getting in a state over Mr Mac’s intended. She would just have to trust to her boss’s good sense to see that everything at the restaurant went on as before, even after his marriage. And anyway, if it didn’t, and she was unhappy, there was always Johnny Frost, or Carl Johansson. They were there, standing in the wings, both equally anxious to rush to her rescue, scoop her out of the restaurant, and give her a comfortable, worry-free life.
In the other bed Diana, crammed in beside Becky, sighed and stirred, and poor Emmy realised that the light which came in round the sides of the curtain was growing stronger. The moon had risen, and if it lit up the bedroom too brightly, she might lie here awake till morning. Having decided, miserably, that sleep would never visit her, she promptly fell into a deep and dream-filled slumber in which Johnny Frost and Carl Johansson vied for her hand, bought her beautiful gifts, and took her to exotic places. Unfortunately, the three of them were always together, the two men glaring at one another whilst she tried, in vain, to keep them apart. And there was a third figure, hovering in the background, always seen through mist so that she could not recognise his features. At one point, Carl asked, jealously, who the fellow was and Emmy glanced round wildly, hating to admit that she did not know. Then the words came tripping out of her mouth without any hesitation. ‘Why, it’s Mr Right, of course,’ she said happily. ‘It’s my Mr Right; he’s come at last!’
Carl had been holding her left hand and Johnny her right, but now she broke free from both of them and ran towards the mist-enshrouded figure. If only she could see him clearly . . . she knew that he really was her Mr Right, that she had found him at last, and if only she could see his face—
But hands were pulling and tugging at her as Johnny and Carl shouted that she was making a horrible mistake, that she was going to marry them – both of them. ‘We’ll be really happy, the three of us,’ Carl said positively. ‘Emmy, be ours!’
Emmy tried to fight them off, tried to reach out to Mr Right . . . and woke. Diana was shaking her shoulder impatiently and peering into her face. She was washed, dressed, and standing with her hairbrush in her hand, looking down at Emmy with both anxiety and irritation. ‘What time did you get in last night, Mam?’ she asked, rather crossly. ‘It’s half past eight an’ if you don’t plait me hair for me, I’ll have to go down with it loose. Oh, do come on, or I’ll be late for school. Aunty Beryl’s got the porridge on the table . . . do wake up!’
Still befuddled by the depth of her sleep, Emmy lurched out of bed, plaited Diana’s hair, and told her daughter to tell Aunty Beryl she would be down in five minutes. Diana clattered out of the room and down the stairs, and Emmy began to think about her dream and how extraordinary it had been. She tried and tried to remember the identity of Mr Right, but could not recall one detail. Finally, with a mental shrug, she put the whole, ridiculous episode out of her mind, and went down to breakfast.
She and Beryl were in the kitchen when Carl arrived at about ten o’clock. They welcomed him warmly and then Beryl left the couple to themselves, saying that she had not yet done her messages and leaving the kitchen with her largest marketing bag and a list, she told them, as long as her arm.
As soon as they were alone, Emmy apologised for her absence the previous day, explaining that her boss was getting married and had asked her to look at some houses for him. She did not do it on purpose, but soon realised she had given Carl the impression that she had visited the houses by herself. Still, something prevented her from admitting that she had done so in the company of Mr Mac. Carl said ruefully that, had he been able to do so, he would have greatly enjoyed accompanying her. ‘For when we are married we shall want a neat place of our own,’ he said expansively. ‘It would be an excellent scheme to examine a number of houses so that we could see whether our tastes are similar. But I’m sure that anything you like, I shall like also,’ he finished, giving her a beaming smile.
‘Oh, Carl, it’s not me that’s getting married, it’s Mr Mac,’ Emmy reminded him. ‘I don’t think I’m ready for marriage yet . . . and then there’s Diana . . . she was very fond of her daddy and can’t imagine his place being filled by anyone else. But I tell you what. Mr Mac asked me to pop in to some estate agents on my way to work today. Suppose you and I go out now and visit Humphreys & Lloyd Jones and Robert Roberts in Netherfield Road and then we could make our way towards the dock, if you have to hurry back to your ship; that would be killing two birds with one stone, wouldn’t it?’
Carl did not look over-enthusiastic but agreed that they might as well do as she suggested since he would have to be back aboard SS Cleopatra by half past eleven at the latest. ‘As for your so charming daughter, I should not be marrying her but yourself,’ he said, rather plaintively. ‘I’m afraid Diana is a little possessive of her mother and will not like any man who looks at you twice. However, I do have a suggestion which I hope may please you. I am taking three weeks off in the summer, and would like you both to accompany me to my home in Sweden for a short holiday. You could meet my parents, and my married sister and brother-in-law. As I must have told you before, my father is a farmer and I’m sure Diana would greatly enjoy a spell in the country. My sister has three girls aged eleven, nine and four; they would be delightful companions for Diana.’
Emmy was so taken aback that she could only stare. Carl had mentioned his family, vaguely, but there had never been any suggestion of a visit and this was the first she had heard of a farm. She supposed that his reticence had been caused by the fact that she had made it clear she would not move away from Liverpool. But now she found the thought of a trip abroad both exciting and stimulating. It would be marvellous to see Sweden, to meet Carl’s relatives, and to learn how life was lived on his parents’ farm. But even so, she was aware of doubts. If she agreed to go with him, then she could scarcely expect to remain a widow; he would take their eventual marriage for granted. But surely it would be no worse than visiting Llandudno, which she had been doing for months?
Emmy hesitated, trying to think of a way to find out whether such a visit would commit her in some way. She began to reply, rather falteringly, that it was most kind of him to suggest it, when he broke in. ‘There would be no – how do you call it – strings attached,’ he said eagerly. ‘After all, my darling Emmy, you told me yourself that you have visited the Frosts in Llandudno many times since leaving the sanatorium. You have said those visits meant nothing, save that you and the Frosts had been friendly for many years. I, alas, cannot claim an old friendship between us, but our friendship, surely, is of sufficiently long standing for such a visit?’
Emmy stared at him thoughtfully for a few moments, then went across to the kitchen door and took her hat and coat from the peg. She perched the hat on her smooth pale-gold hair and spoke to Carl over her shoulder as he began to help her into her coat. ‘Yes, I have been visiting the Frosts, so I suppose I could visit you without – without risking a lot of talk. And I should enjoy such a trip very much, since I have never been abroad. Diana would, too, I’m sure. Only – well, you do know I could never live in your country, even if we did get married? I don’t speak the language and besides, I don’t want to leave Liverpool. All my friends are here, and Diana’s too.’
‘I understand, and I would not suggest such a thing,’ Carl said, but Emmy thought she detected a touch of impatience in his tone. ‘May I take it, then, that you will accompany me when I go back to Sweden?’
They had let themselves out of the kitchen and were crossing the court, Emmy with her hand tucked into Carl’s elbow, but at these words she stopped short, feeling that committing herself at this stage might be a big mistake. ‘No you can’t,’ she said baldly. ‘Summer is months away. Anything might happen in that time. Now let’s change the subject.’
Carl began to say that summer was not that far distant, although if she preferred it he could take time off over Christmas, but Emmy resolutely changed the subject. Very soon, they entered the first estate agent’s premises, whence they presently emerged with details of two houses, both of which sounded promising, on paper at least.
‘If only I had a little more time ashore, I would love to accompany you to examine these places,’ Carl said, rather wistfully. ‘But, my dearest Emmy, if you see a house that you really like, will you write to me, giving me all the details? After all, if we mean to marry, then we should—’
‘You are beginning to bore me, Carl,’ Emmy said crisply, hearing the edge in her voice with some satisfaction. ‘Why can’t you simply accept that it is too soon for me to think of marriage? You said if I accompanied you home, it would be without strings, without any commitment in fact, yet you are making me feel guilty because I won’t say yes or no right this moment.’
‘Good. That is how I wish you to feel,’ Carl said, surprising a choke of laughter out of Emmy. ‘Do you realise, my love, that I have been taking you about now for the best part of six years, but we have never spent more than a couple of days together? However, if you come home with me and we spend three weeks in each other’s company, you will soon discover that I am a grand chap, willing to dance to your tune and to satisfy your slightest whim.’
He said it so comically that Emmy was forced to stifle another laugh. Very soon, they were saying goodbye at the dock gates and she was promising to write, though not necessarily about houses.
She stood and waved until Carl had mounted the gangway and disappeared into the depths of the ship, and then she turned and began to make her way towards the restaurant, feeling rather guiltily lighthearted now that she had waved Carl off, knowing that she would not be seeing him again for three weeks. I shouldn’t really be feeling like this, she told herself, as she walked briskly along the pavement. Carl is very nice but I truly don’t think I ought to marry anyone who makes me feel so impatient and cross. Though, of course, if I did marry him, he wouldn’t have to nag me so.
On this thought, she entered the restaurant and was once again surprised by the rush of pleasure which came over her at the sight of the familiar room, with Mr Mac giving her a quick little smile – he was on the cash desk – and both customers and staff greeting her warmly as she went into the staff room to hang up her coat and hat. Working on the cash desk, she no longer needed cap or apron, but had merely to wear a neat black dress, with lawn collar and cuffs. Mr Mac had formed the habit of buying a fresh pink rosebud for the cashier to wear during her shift and now Emmy took it from the little vase next to the mirror and pinned it to the front of her dress. She checked her hair, her stocking seams, and her general appearance, then picked up the house details she had acquired earlier and headed for the cash desk.
Mr Mac greeted her warmly and took the papers from her, standing up as he did so, and stepping away from the desk area. ‘You are a good girl, Mrs Wesley,’ he said approvingly, flicking through the papers in his hand. ‘I am most grateful . . . perhaps you and I could repeat yesterday’s expedition on your next day off? Some at least of these houses will be worth viewing, I’m sure.’
Emmy returned his smile, realising as she did so that her expedition with Mr Mac had been one of the nicest days out she had enjoyed for years. They got on so well, had so much in common, seemed to know what the other was thinking without having to put it into words . . .
She was beginning to say that she would be delighted to view more houses with him when a revelation occurred. The Mr Right of her dream suddenly appeared in her mind’s eye, but this time there was no shrouding mist, and the face which smiled into her own was that of Mr Mac!
For some while after he had left her, Emmy could think of nothing but Mr Mac. She was in a daze of happiness for, in the end, the whole thing had been so simple. She had realised, at the moment of revelation, that she did not care a fig for either Johnny or Carl, but instead cared, passionately, for her employer. He might be forty-two, and she remembered she had once thought him old, but now his age simply did not matter. Mr Mac was not as handsome as either Carl or Johnny, not as tall, not as obviously desirable, yet she knew now that she loved him with all her heart. She had tried and tried to love Johnny or Carl, and a very poor job she had made of it, because love can’t be forced, nor does it come for the asking. When it does come, it is completely natural, completely understandable, and that was how she felt about Mr Mac.
The sudden recollection as she gave a customer his change and watched him slip twopence into the staff gratuities box was like a douche of cold water. She might be free, but Mr Mac was most certainly not. He had told her he was hoping to get married in the near future, and again two pictures of his possible mate – one plain and plump, one beautiful but hard – popped into Emmy’s mind, only on this occasion both faces were seen through a red mist. They shan’t have him, Emmy thought vengefully. They’re not right for him – neither of them is – they know nothing about the business, so they’ll just get in the way when they come into the restaurant, and I don’t believe they know him half as well as I do. Why, he’s the kindest and best man that ever lived . . . look how wonderful he was, visiting me almost every week whilst I was in the sanatorium, and even bringing Diana with him sometimes. Oh, how I wish I’d had the sense then to try and make him love me.
The day wore on. Emmy enjoyed her work, but now, when Mr Mac came over and spoke to her, she was uncertain how she should reply. It would be dreadfully shaming if he realised she was in love with him, since he could not return her feelings. If only she knew just how fond he was of his wife-tobe! But the very fact that he meant to marry must mean he adored the woman.
All afternoon, Emmy wondered what she should do for the best. The obvious course was to tell herself that Mr Mac, as an almost married man, was out of the running as far as she was concerned. Yet surely there must still be some hope for her? After all, he had repeated his invitation to her to view more houses on her next day off. I know he likes me, Emmy told herself stubbornly, as her shift ended and she went to the staff room to put on her coat and hat. And if he likes me – well, you never know what might happen. I’ll be so nice to him that he’s bound to begin to think of me as a friend rather than just as an employee. I shall ask old Mrs Mac to tell me about his lady friend . . . I shall pretend I want to know so that I can judge her taste when viewing houses. But, oh dear, what a fool I’ve been! I’ve had a hundred opportunities to make him love me, and I’ve let them all slip. But I won’t give in, I won’t, I won’t! Somehow, I’ll make him see that his marrying anyone but me would be a terrible mistake.
‘Emmy, if we’re going to walk home together, you’d best gerra move on. The rain’s stopped, for a miracle, so if we hurry we might get back without being soaked to the skin.’
Emmy swung round. It was Dolly, who had recently moved into a house not far from Nightingale Court, and the two of them often walked home together. ‘Sorry, queen,’ Emmy said, hurrying across the staff room in Dolly’s wake. ‘I want a word with Mr Mac, though, before I leave. Can you hang on for two more minutes?’
Emmy had no idea what she intended to say but, in the event, said nothing. Mr Mac had left.