On a Tuesday evening, towards the end of March in 1906, Emma knew the baby was coming. She had moved in with Blackie’s friend, Laura Spencer, early in the new year; it had been Laura who took her into St Mary’s Hospital at Hill Top. Emma was in labour for ten hours, before giving birth to her child. It was exactly a month before her own seventeenth birthday in late April.
Much to Emma’s joy, it was a girl, and when she held her in her arms for the first time and looked into that sweet little face, she wondered how she would find the strength to entrust her to her cousin Freda in Ripon to bring up. Deep down, she accepted, she had no choice. She had to work to provide for her daughter and, at least with Freda, the little girl would be safe and well taken care of. That was the truth, a certainty, in fact.
Now, on this blustery afternoon, Emma sat in Laura’s parlour in her house in Armley. It reminded her of Janessa Kallinski’s home, with comfortable chairs and a sofa at one end, and this spot in front of the fireplace.
Emma was wrapped in a shawl, happy to be in front of a roaring fire, warm and safe, but an air of dejection, abnormal for her, enveloped her. She glanced down at her daughter, just four days old. She knew she could not keep the baby with her, even though she longed to. The baby lay in a makeshift cradle, fashioned by Laura. It was actually a drawer from a chest that Laura had lined with thick blankets and downy pillows. In the firelight, the baby’s fluff of silver-blonde hair shone brightly, and her cheeks were pink as she slept in perfect peace.
This lovely child was hers. No sacrifice she could make would be too great if it ensured the well-being and security of this baby. ‘I won’t let anything happen to you ever,’ she whispered softly but with some vehemence. ‘And you’ll have the best that money can buy. I promise you that!’ Emma meant every word.
Many diverse thoughts were suddenly running through her head. She would not countenance the idea of adoption or the orphanage. But her heart ached at the thought of giving the baby to her cousin Freda, in Ripon, as she had arranged, and only visiting at weekends. Should she go back to Leeds every day to work for the Kallinskis? Laura had arranged for her to work three days a week at Thompson’s mill, nearby, learning to weave. But the Kallinskis were unique. She missed them, especially Janessa, who had mothered her, shown her such affection and love. Blackie was against it. He believed she was better off in Upper Armley, and had asked her in January where she would live in Leeds, if she stayed there. ‘Not in that attic!’ he had exclaimed. He had been annoyed on that cold January day, when she had told him she didn’t want to live with Laura, share her house. And at first she had refused to go on the tram.
He had exploded in temper, which was not at all like him; he had badgered her and bossed her until she had given in. Emma had stayed virtually silent on the tram ride to Whingate Junction, while Blackie had done his best to bring her round to the idea of moving out to Upper Armley, painting a rosy picture of its shops and park and amenities.
But it had been Laura’s character and lovely warm personality that had made Emma change her mind. She thought of that now. She had never met anyone like her before. So gentle, sincere and compassionate, with the face of the Madonna. Peace and calm seemed to shine all around her, like a halo. And she was welcoming, insisted on helping her to unpack. Settling her in the room upstairs that had been her parents’ room, with its comfortable brass bed.
Emma let out a deep sigh. She was genuinely relieved she was living here, glad that Blackie had ranted and raved at her, made her come. Upper Armley also offered safety. And shops.
Yes, here she would have her first shop, perhaps even her second and her third. She would work every minute of every day to achieve the success she craved. Success equalled money. For her little daughter. She must protect her always.
Unexpectedly, she thought of Edwin Fairley, and looked down at the baby. She was also part of him, the weakling, the coward who had deserted her. No, them. Because the baby was his. She cursed him under her breath, and then abruptly stopped. She must put Edwin out of her mind. Now and forever.
The baby was innocent, and she could not let bad feelings about him cloud her judgement. I’ll never think of him again, she promised herself and, as it was, she kept that promise.
‘Hello! Hello! Anybody home?’ The loud voice and knocking on the door made Emma sit up with a start. She had been dozing.
Blackie came marching in, his hair looking blown about by the wind, a giant smile on his face.
‘Here I am, me darlin’ Emma, bearing a few gifts for the wee bairn.’
It was true. His arms were full of packages which he put down on the kitchen table, before taking off his topcoat.
‘Blackie! You’re early. I didn’t expect to see you so soon!’ she exclaimed.
‘Well, ye knows I can’t resist the new addition to our little family. So I came galloping over without giving it a thought.’
‘I’m glad you did. Just go and take a peek at her, sleeping peacefully. A perfect little girl, Blackie.’
‘Aye and sure she is. For doesn’t she take after her beautiful mother?’ He strode over to look at the baby in the cradle, smiled, and then headed for the table. ‘Come on, Emma, come and look at the bits and pieces I picked up for Tinker Bell.’
Emma laughed. Blackie had taken to calling the baby Tinker Bell well before it was born; he was already certain – because Emma herself was – that it would be a girl.
Blackie grinned back and began to unwrap the presents. ‘Help me, mavourneen.’
Emma tore the paper off one parcel and discovered a pink wool coat trimmed with pink ribbon. ‘Oh, Blackie, it’s lovely. Thank you.’
‘And here’s the matching bonnet and a little pair of booties. I hope they’ll fit the wee mite. I had to be guessing the sizes.’
‘They’re perfect, Blackie, but you should not be spending your money on Tinker Bell.’ She smiled as she used his name for her daughter. ‘You should be saving it to build that house of yours in Harrogate.’
‘Ah, by God, I will do that one day, on the heads of the Blessed Saints, I will do that. But me and me Uncle Pat are doing well; sure and I can spare a few bob for Tinker Bell.’ He paused and handed her the last parcel.
Emma opened it and found a fluffy white lamb in her hands. ‘Blackie, thank you again, you’re spoiling her already. She can cuddle this.’
‘She deserves a toy, ye knows.’
Moving to the kitchen, Emma took the kettle, filled it with water and put it to the stove. ‘I’ll make us a cup of tea. Are you hungry, Blackie? Do you want something to eat?’
‘Ah, no, mavourneen. Tea will be just fine.’ He began to pick up the paper and threw it onto the fire. ‘Tinker Bell has to have a real name, ye knows. So, Emma, what are ye going to call her?’ he asked.
‘I don’t know,’ she answered quietly, and stood waiting for the kettle to boil, suddenly looking plaintive. After filling the teapot, she sat down at the table, waiting for the tea to mash.
Blackie went to the cupboard, took out two cups, and sat down opposite her. He noticed at once that she was looking sad. ‘Hey, Miss Emma, what’s troubling ye?’
‘Well, it’s just …’ She paused, stared at him, her worry now most apparent. Finally, she answered him. ‘I’m just a bit concerned about the baby not being christened.’
Blackie was thunderstruck, stared at her, obviously uncomprehending, and then he began to laugh. Eventually, he calmed himself. ‘Why should that matter to ye? After all, ye’ve been telling me for months that ye are an atheist.’
‘I am!’ Emma cried. ‘But I don’t feel quite right about it, and the baby might believe in God when she grows up, and she might be angry with me if she finds out she wasn’t baptized.’
Realizing she was being genuine, in earnest, Blackie said, ‘Go and see the vicar at Christ Church.’
‘Oh, I can’t!’ Emma replied. ‘The vicar would want her birth certificate. That is the custom. And since I don’t have one he’ll realize Tinker Bell is illegitimate. He cannot know that. No one can! Promise me you’ll keep my secret, Blackie, please.’
‘Sure an’ I will, but are ye going to say Winston, your husband, is the father? ’Cos he’s far away on the high seas, according to ye.’ He raised a dark brow questioningly.
‘Of course not, but I could. I was pregnant when I came to Leeds, remember.’
‘Aye, I did forget for a moment. Let me put me thinking cap on, mavourneen. Meanwhile, could ye pour the tea, please?’
She did so, biting her inner lip, suddenly growing more worried. Why hadn’t she thought of this before? One thing was certain, she wouldn’t put his name on the birth certificate. She did not want her child ever to be linked to the name Fairley.
The two of them sat in silence, drinking their tea. Suddenly, Blackie sat up straight, as an idea came to him. ‘I’ve got the solution! We’ll have our own christening, I am thinking,’ he shouted in a cheerful voice. ‘Bring me a bowl.’
‘I don’t understand what you mean.’ Emma’s brow came together in a frown. ‘Our own christening?’
‘Since ye are so troubled about the bairn not being christened, I am goin’ to do it meself.’
Disbelief flickered in Emma’s eyes. ‘Would it be proper? Would it be a real christening, I mean?’
‘Sure and it would. I can do just as good a job as a vicar or a priest, for that matter. Though I’m a lapsed Catholic, I still believe in God, ye know. God lives within us, Emma. Nowadays I feel Him in me heart. I feel His love and His presence.’
Emma was absolutely astounded, so much so she remained silent, yet she knew he meant every word he said.
Blackie spoke again. ‘He will accept her as one of the blessed children, sure and He will. Believe me, it’s the baptism and the spirit of love behind it that counts – not the man that does it or where it’s done. Bring me a bowl of water, please.’
‘I believe you,’ Emma said as she went to get a bowl. ‘I want you to christen my baby. I’m so grateful to you.’
‘That’s my girl.’ He took the bowl from her and went to the sink. ‘Now, mavourneen, can you get me a small towel, please?’
She did so and looked at him. ‘Shall I get the baby out of the cradle now?’
‘A fine idea,’ Blackie answered, filling the bowl with tepid water.
Emma went to the fireplace and lifted her baby out of the makeshift cot, cradled her in her arms, cooing to her. ‘Oh, my sweet little girl,’ she said, entranced with her child. Unexpectedly, Edwin’s face flashed before her eyes, and so did Adam Fairley’s and, having vowed never to think of them ever again, she was horrified. And her guard went down; suddenly she was distracted and aghast, actually flustered.
‘Bring the baby over to the sink, mavourneen.’
‘Just a minute, Blackie. I haven’t got her quite right. Let me move her a bit.’
Emma turned her back and swallowed, endeavouring to retrieve her composure.
Blackie was calling from the sink. ‘And what will ye be calling Tinker Bell then? Have ye thought of a name?’
Emma, so upset and preoccupied, did not have time to think. Edwin’s face was in her head, his name on the tip of her tongue. She said automatically, thoughtlessly, ‘Edwina—’
As she heard herself saying that name, Emma froze, so furious was she with herself, and her own carelessness. Why had she said that name? She felt as if the blood was draining out of her. What a fool I am, she thought.
Blackie’s jaw had dropped open as he was staring at her back. Without having to give it a second thought, he knew who the baby’s father was. Why had he not realized that before? Especially since he had been suspicious about her story from the beginning.
He realized she had not meant to call the child Edwina. Emma was far too canny for that. Why would she spell it out to him? No, it was a mistake, and one she could not really correct now.
Adopting an unconcerned tone, he said with a show of gaiety, ‘And what an elegant name it is for wee Tinker Bell. I like it, sure and I do.’
Emma walked over to him, not trusting herself to speak. Blackie fussed with the towel, draping it over his arm, giving her time to regain her composure, feeling sorry for her.
‘I’m ready,’ he said with a very bright smile. ‘Hold the baby forward, Emma. Yes, that’s good, mavourneen.’
Emma, always swift to recover, said, ‘Her full name is Ed … Edwina.’ She almost faltered, then went on with more steadiness, ‘Laura Shane—’
‘Shane!’ Blackie exclaimed, his surprise obvious.
‘After you, my dearest friend. I can’t call her Patrick or Desmond, now can I? And Blackie would be odd, most certainly.’ She managed to force a smile onto her face.
Blackie had to laugh, and he was relieved she was more like herself. ‘That’s true, very true. And I am flattered, Emma, but let us now commence.’
He dipped his fingers in the bowl of water and, with a bit of a flourish, he made the sign of the cross on the baby’s forehead.
‘Please, Blackie, stop!’ Emma exclaimed, her eyes wide and staring. ‘I’m not a Roman Catholic, and neither is the baby. In the Church of England, the vicar just sprinkles water on in little drips. He doesn’t make a cross on the baby’s forehead. We must do it properly. We must start again, please.’
Blackie did his best to stifle the laughter bubbling up in him. For a so-called atheist, she was being mighty particular. ‘Sure and I will, Emma, I understand.’
He wiped the water off the baby’s brow, dipped his large fingers in the bowl, and sprinkled a few drops on the baby’s brow. The baby stared up at him unblinkingly.
‘I christen thee Edwina Laura Shane Harte. In the name of God the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit.’ Blackie crossed himself and then bent over the baby and kissed her.
‘There you are, it’s all done. But I have a question for ye, Emma. Whose name will be on the birth certificate?’
Emma’s expression of happiness evaporated at once. ‘I haven’t quite worked that out yet,’ she admitted a little dolefully.
‘Then I shall do that for ye. It can’t be left blank. That would be terrible. So ye will put my name on it. I want that … I would be more than proud to be listed as Edwina’s father.’
‘Oh Blackie, I can’t! I mustn’t saddle you with that … it’s a responsibility,’ Emma cried, shaking her head with some vehemence.
‘Yes, ye will do it! I want it, and I just christened her. I will always be there for her, and I will protect her as if she were mine. We will go and see the registrar in Leeds next week. And that’s that.’
Emma recognized that obdurate look on his face and knew she had no choice. ‘Thank you, Blackie, you’re so kind, my best friend, and I appreciate what you did today, and are doing.’
She stared into the fire. ‘Laura must never see it.’
Blackie leaned forward and asked, ‘What was that?’
‘I don’t want Laura to be hurt. She would be, if she saw your name on the certificate. She might believe you really were the father.’
‘So what?’ Blackie demanded, further bewildered.
‘Laura loves you, Blackie. I bet if you asked her, she’d marry you.’
Blackie was stunned. A peculiar look settled on his face. One that Emma could not read.
By April, the baby was comfortably settled with her cousin Freda in Ripon. If she had been surprised at Emma’s unexpected arrival on her doorstep, or shocked at her story, the loving and compassionate Freda had not shown it at all. Emma was content to know that Edwina had been left in capable hands, and that she would be looked after and cherished with complete devotion.
As soon as she was able, Emma had made her long-awaited trip to Fairley village, brimming with happiness at the thought of seeing her father and her younger brother Frank again, carrying thoughtfully chosen presents for them both and a bunch of spring flowers for her mother’s grave. She had bumped into her brother Winston on her way to the cottage; he’d been coming out of the pub and looked tall, handsome and resplendent in his naval uniform, on leave from duties in Scapa Flow.
Frank was dumbfounded to see his older sister, and overcome with emotion. He sped across the room, flinging himself into Emma’s outstretched arms with such velocity he almost knocked her over. She held him close to her, stroking his hair. He began to cry, sobbing as if his heart would break. She was at once startled and baffled, and she tried to soothe him.
‘Frank, lovey, don’t cry so. I’m here, safe and well, and with presents for you, too.’
He raised his freckled and damp face to hers and said, with a snuffle, ‘I’ve missed yer, Emma. Ever so much. I thought yer’d never come back. Never, ever again,’ he wept.
Emma tried to comfort him. ‘Don’t be silly. I’ll always come back. I’ve missed you, too. Now come along, stop crying, and let me take off my coat. These are for you, love,’ she said, handing him socks, a shirt and writing materials, and a copy of David Copperfield. ‘I’m sorry, Winston, I didn’t know you’d be home so I didn’t bring you anything,’ she told her elder brother.
Busying herself at the Welsh dresser, taking out the other items, she said, ‘These are for Dad. Where is he?’
She glanced from Winston to Frank, a look of joyous expectation on her face.
Winston’s eyes dropped to the floor and Frank stood gazing at her vacantly, clutching his presents. Neither of them spoke.
‘What’s wrong? Why are you both so quiet? Where’s our dad?’ Emma asked again. Fear began to trickle through her veins.
She sat down and Winston lowered himself into the chair opposite her. He took her hand in his and held it tightly, watching her with concern and saying very gently, ‘He’s with our mam, Emma.’
Emma seemed uncomprehending. She looked from brother to brother, at their distressed faces and tear-filled eyes.
‘Our dad’s dead,’ Frank told her, with his usual childlike bluntness. His voice was leaden with sorrow. ‘He died five days after you left, last August.’
‘Dead,’ whispered Emma, choking back a sob. ‘He can’t be dead. It’s not possible. I would have known if he had died. I would have known inside. In my heart. I just know I would.’ And as she uttered these words, she realized from their grim expressions that it was true.
She stared into space and finally managed to ask, ‘How did he die?’ Her voice was drained.
‘There was an accident,’ Winston said. ‘We didn’t know where to find you, Emma. We kept thinking you’d be back in a few days …’
Emma was silent. She had no excuses. A sick dismay lodged in her stomach, and guilt mingled with her grief, which was absolute. ‘What kind of accident?’ she whispered.
‘Well, yer see, Emma, that Saturday yer left, there was a fire at the mill and me dad got burned. And he breathed a lot of smoke. He survived but me Aunty Lily said he didn’t want to live any more, he wanted to join our mam. He died peacefully in his sleep that night.’
Emma said, with a strangled sob, ‘Did he understand that I hadn’t returned from Bradford, and that’s why I wasn’t there, Winston?’
Her brother nodded. ‘Yes, and he wasn’t upset, Emma. He said he didn’t have to see you, because you were locked in his heart forever.’
Emma closed her burning eyes and leaned back against the chair. ‘Was anyone else injured?’ she asked eventually.
‘No, only me dad,’ Frank told her. ‘Me dad was crossing the yard and spotted Master Edwin going in ter the warehouse. Me dad ran after him, warning him it was ever so dangerous. A blazing bale was falling from the gantry, so me dad threw himself on top of Master Edwin, ter protect him. He saved Master Edwin’s life, and with selfless courage, so the Squire said.’
Emma went icy cold all over. ‘My father saved Edwin Fairley’s life!’ she cried with such ferocity that even Winston was brought up sharply, aghast at her tone. ‘He died to save a Fairley! My father sacrificed himself for one of them!’ She spat out the words venomously, and a sick, fulminating fury rose up in her.
And so it began, something Blackie had never seen in his life ever before. The most relentless pursuit of money ever embarked upon, the most grinding and merciless work schedule ever conceived and willingly undertaken by a seventeen-year-old girl.
Blackie and Laura worried about Emma as days turned into weeks, weeks into months. They even tried to make her ease up on herself, to relax a little, go with them to Armley Park on Sundays to hear the brass band playing the popular tunes. But she wouldn’t hear of it. Occasionally, she promised to come but never arrived.
Her schedule was brutal, but it was of her own creation. By day she worked at the mill; at night, after a quick supper, she retired to her bedroom where she designed, cut and sewed clothes for a rapidly growing clientele of local women, informed by the loving Laura of her flair with a needle. And her reasonable prices. Everyone raved about the clothes she created.
Once a month, on a Saturday or Sunday, she went to visit her baby daughter in Ripon. The rest of the time she made all kinds of pies, tarts, cakes and custards, trifles and jellies. Many of them were from recipes given to her long ago by Olivia Wainright.
She made jams of every kind; raspberry, strawberry and plum were everyone’s favourites. She bottled apricots, plums, pears and various vegetables. The list was long; all were relished.
The pies and fancy pastries were sold at once. The bottled fruits and vegetables were stored in Laura’s cellar for future sale. Everything she did was well thought out, and by the end of the year, she knew she had enough money to find her first shop. There was enough to pay the rent, buy fixtures and fittings, and display stands. And more money to purchase the stocks.
Emma was dogged, ruthless with herself. She scrimped and saved, worked seven days a week, and seven nights as well.
Her first goal was her first shop in Upper Armley if she could find one. And after that, more shops until she had a chain of them, just as Michael Marks had a chain of Penny Bazaars. But hers would be elegant stores, which would cater to the carriage trade.