A Woman of Substance. Barbara Taylor Bradford
of the persistent coughing that racked her body. Slowly the obstinate rattle in her chest abated and eventually she was able to take a long draught of the medicine. Although she was suffering from shortness of breath and exertion she managed to speak.
‘Yer’d best go down and see ter yer father and the lads, luv. I’ll rest a while and perhaps afore yer go ter work yer’ll bring me up some tea.’ The febrile light in her eyes was dimming and she seemed more conscious of her surroundings, more aware of the girl who stood beside the bed.
Emma bent down and kissed the woman’s lined cheek with tenderness and pulled the blankets up around the wasted shoulders protectively. ‘Aye, I will.’ She slipped out of the room and closed the door softly. As she ran down the narrow stone staircase, ignoring its high perilous slant in her haste, raised voices wafted up to meet her halfway. Emma stood quite still and drew in her breath sharply, her heart sinking into the pit of her stomach. A feeling of nausea swept over her as she envisioned the ugly scene awaiting her. Winston, her brother, and her father were quarrelling again and the violence of their confrontation was only too evident from their angrily raised voices. The chilling thought that they would disturb her mother caused Emma to cry out involuntarily. She stifled the frightened half cry, pressing her roughened hands to her mouth, and sat down heavily on the cold stone steps, wondering helplessly how she could stop them fighting. If her mam heard them she would crawl out of bed to make peace between them, even if it took her last ounce of strength. Elizabeth Harte had always been the buffer between her son Winston and her husband. In these last few weeks she had been too debilitated to leave her bed, a virtual prisoner in the mean little room under the eaves. But when she heard their violent disagreements, she cried a lot and the fever accelerated and became more virulent and she coughed until she was worn out with coughing.
‘Fools!’ Emma said out loud. Grown men acting like bairns and them too selfish ter think of me poor mam. This thought galvanized her. She jumped up quickly, the sinking sickness replaced by a cold anger that grew in magnitude as Emma continued her descent down the staircase. She pushed open the kitchen door and stood rigid and tense on the threshold, her hand tightly gripping the doorframe. As she regarded the scene her green eyes took on a flinty look.
Unlike the damp and cheerless room upstairs, this was a cosy, heartwarming place. A fire blazed in the grate and a large iron kettle was hissing on the hob. The giant-sized cabbage roses on the wallpaper had long since lost their summer glory, but the smudged pink outlines left behind added a warming mellow cast to the walls. Pieces of polished horse brass gleamed around the fireplace, twinkling in the soft light with the lustre of freshly minted gold sovereigns. Two comfortable high-backed wooden chairs stood on either side of the fireplace and there was a tall Welsh dresser opposite, filled with blue and white willow-patterned dishes. In the very centre of the room, a large scrubbed wood table took pride of place and was surrounded by six rush-seated chairs. White lace curtains graced the windows and the red brick floor sparkled. The room had a robust, rosy glow, a glow enhanced by the roaring fire that blazed up the chimney and the trembling flicker of the paraffin lamp that stood on the mantelshelf.
It was a scene that Emma carried with her, especially when she was at Fairley Hall, for it engendered a sense of well-being within her and comforted her when she was alone. Now her cherished image was shattered. Everything was in its place, nothing had been moved, but the atmosphere was charged, and ugly and angry words reverberated and bounced off the walls. The two men, her father and her brother, faced each other like animals, oblivious to her, oblivious to everything except this deadly hatred between them.
John ‘Big Jack’ Harte was a large man, as his nickname implied. Without his boots, in his stocking feet, he stood six foot two and was ramrod straight. He had fought the Boers in Africa in 1900, a sergeant in the Seaforth Highlanders, and it was said of him that he could fell a man with one blow from his massive fist. He had a powerfully built frame, a handsome roughhewn face, a ruddy complexion, and a splendid head of wavy hair the colour of polished jet.
He stood towering over his son Winston, his fist raised in anger and ready to bring down hard on the boy. His face was livid with volcanic wrath and his eyes flared dangerously. ‘Thee’s not going into no navy and that’s last I’ll hear of it in this house, me lad! Thee’s under age and no permission will thee get from me. Now drop it once and for all, our Winston, or thee’ll feel me strap across thee back. Thee’s not too old yet for a good hiding, me lad, and don’t thee forget it!’
Winston glowered back at his father, his unusually beautiful face flushed and contorted with frustration and anger, his blue eyes icy. ‘If I want ter go, I’ll go,’ he screamed passionately. ‘Yer can’t stop me if I runs away and run away I will, out of this godforsaken hole, here there’s nowt but misery and poverty and dying—’
‘Little monkey! Talk back ter me, would thee! We’ll soon see about that!’
The boy could not move for a split second and then, as the bubble of rage burst in his head, he stepped forward and lifted his arm as if to strike his father. But through the dizzying haze of his blinding anger he saw something menacing in those eyes and he paled and backed away, faltering, mortally afraid of his father’s strength. Although he was not as tall and as muscular as his father, Winston was well built and strong, but he was made of finer stuff, more like his mother. And he knew he was no physical match for Big Jack Harte. Winston had strong instincts for self-preservation and especially so when it applied to his person, for the fifteen-year-old boy was increasingly conscious of his striking looks and he knew them to be his most powerful asset.
‘Don’t think I didn’t see that, our Winston! I’ll teach thee ter raise thee hand ter me, lad! That I will. I’m going ter give thee a good hiding thee won’t forget as long as thee lives. And it’s long overdue!’ As he spoke he began to unbuckle the black leather belt around his trousers, pulling it off hurriedly in his excitement. He wrapped it around his right hand, buckle first, moving towards Winston threateningly and with immense power.
‘Ah, yer can’t scare me!’ Winston cried shrilly, nonetheless retreating to the Welsh dresser, putting the table safely between them. ‘Yer wouldn’t dare hit me! Me mam won’t never forgive yer, if yer puts that strap on me!’ he warned.
Big Jack Harte appeared not to hear. He moved forward rapidly and with agility, the black leather strap dangling ominously in his tightened fist. He lifted his arm and would have brought the strap down across the boy’s head if Emma had not rushed across the room at this moment and jumped in front of her father. She grabbed his arm and held it with both hands, using all of her strength. Her face was gaunt in the firelight and she shook with rage. She stood before her father unflinchingly. She was the only one who dared defy him, who had the nerve to stand up to him. And she could usually quell his wrath, subdue him into docility.
Although her voice was quiet when she spoke there was vehemence in her words. ‘Shut up, Dad! What’s got in ter yer? Shouting and bawling at this hour and our mam lying badly upstairs. Yer should know better, our dad. And yer should be ashamed of yerself! Now sit down and drink yer tea, or I’ll be the one that runs away, and then where would yer all be, eh?’ She held tightly on to his raised arm, which she could not move. ‘Come on, Dad,’ she cajoled in a softer tone, ‘don’t be stubborn. Our Winston won’t run off ter the navy. That’s all big talk on his part.’
‘That’s what yer think, is it, Miss Nosy Parker?’ Winston interjected furiously from the safety of his corner on the other side of the room. ‘Well, yer wrong for once in yer short life, our Emma. I mean it. Yes, I do.’
Emma swung around to face her brother. She strove to control herself. ‘Stop it, Winston,’ she hissed. ‘Yer’ll have me mam downstairs next and her so poorly. And stop this stupid talk of joining the Royal Navy. Me dad’s right, yer are too young. And yer’ll break our mam’s heart if yer runs away. So stop it. And now!’
Winston’s eyes gleamed with unfamiliar resentment and hostility. ‘Miss Bossy Knickers, that’s what yer are,’ he cried derisively. ‘Mind yer own business, Miss Bossy. Always interfering. Yer make me sick. Yer nowt but a slip of a lass and what do yer knows about owt, Emma Harte!’ There was a tinge of venom in his voice, but he recoiled under her piercing