A Woman of Substance. Barbara Taylor Bradford
vaguely conscious that he was afraid of his sister. Not afraid in the sense that he was afraid of his father’s brute force, but in another, wholly different way which he did not fully comprehend. As if to belie his feelings, he sucked in his breath and cried, ‘Too big for yer boots, Emma Harte. That’s what yer are!’ Emma ignored this last outburst and pressed her lips together, willing herself not to respond.
Jack had been dimly aware of this heated exchange between his two eldest children and he had used the few seconds to cool his rage. Now he turned his leonine head slowly and regarded his son with penetrating intensity. ‘Enough’s enough, Winston,’ he said in a voice still roughened with the residue of anger, yet controlled. ‘Leave thee sister alone. Thee’s done plenty of damage for one day, and I won’t be forgetting it for a hell of a long time.’
‘She’s always poking her nose inter me business—’ Winston retorted, but stopped short when he saw the irate glint in his father’s eyes, the flush rising on his neck to suffuse his face. Jack moved restlessly under Emma’s loosening grip and Winston thought better of arousing his father again. He slid with catlike grace to the far end of the kitchen, towards their younger brother Frank, who had been cowering against the set pot shaking with fear and whimpering during the uproar.
Emma was seething at his stupidity and inability to gauge their father’s moods, to know when to hold his tongue. Watching him whispering to Frank and consoling him, she wished he would run away and then perhaps they would have some peace. This disloyal thought so paralysed her she let go of her father’s arm. Winston’s presence had always been necessary to her and they were inseparable. He was her ally, her only friend, and as such she had considered him to be indispensable. The realization that perhaps he was not stunned her. She turned back quickly to her father, took his arm, and, somewhat shaken, said quietly, ‘Come on, Dad, sit down now.’
For a moment Jack Harte would not yield under the determined but light pressure of her hands on his muscular body. He looked down at the girl and thought how thin she was and he knew how easy it would be to free himself from her grip. With a flick of his wrist he could send her frail body hurtling across the room. But he had never struck Emma and he never would. He relaxed and allowed her to manoeuvre him into the chair. He gazed at the pale face, usually so grave and thoughtful, which still slightly twitched with aggravation, and he was moved as only she, of all his children, could move him. And as he contemplated his daughter, the only one who dared to challenge him, Big Jack had a rare and sudden flash of insight. He recognized with great clarity of vision that he was facing implacable will. A will wrought of iron and, in one so young, frightening and shocking. That unyielding little countenance filled him with a mixture of emotions, new emotions for him, compounded of pride and fear. He was proud of Emma’s strength, yet afraid for her because of it. It would get her into trouble one day, of that he felt sure. She was independent of spirit and there was no room for independent spirits in their world. Their class was inevitably ground under the heels of the bosses. Emma’s fierce will would be broken and he dreaded that day. He prayed then that he would not be around to see it, for it would break his heart, just as surely as it would break hers.
As he continued to stare at her, he saw the girl clearly for the first time in years. He saw the undernourished body, the thin neck, and the scrawny shoulders underneath the shabby little nightgown. But he also saw something else. He saw the transparency of the skin, as white as the snow that lingered still on the highest fells. He saw the sparkling eyes full of emerald fire, twin reflections of his own. He saw the richness of the russet hair that came to a widow’s peak above the proud brow. He saw in that undeveloped childish body the beginning of prettiness, but would it ever come to flower? His heart shifted and seemed to move imperceptibly with an unbearable ache and he was filled with profound anger and grief when he thought of the life of drudgery that lay ahead of her. She was a drudge already, here and at Fairley Hall, and she was so young.
Her light, girlish voice brought him out of his reverie. ‘Dad, Dad, don’t yer feel well?’ She was bending over him.
‘There’s nowt wrong with me, lass. Have thee looked in on thee mam? How is she?’
‘She was a bit poorly afore I came down, but she’s resting easy like now. I’m going ter take her some tea in a minute.’
She started to move away from him and he smiled at her, white teeth flashing, eyes loving, but she did not respond in her usual affectionate way, the way he had anticipated. She simply patted his arm and gave him a long careful look and he felt curiously reproached and shamed by his own child, as if he were the child and she the parent. And it bothered him enormously, for Emma was his favourite and he understood her and had the most profound love for her. He did not want to be diminished in her eyes. Her esteem was very necessary to him. Mechanically he leaned over and lifted his boots from the hearth. It was getting late and he would have to leave soon for the Fairley brickyard, where he and Winston worked. It was on the Pudsey road and it took them a full hour to walk there.
Emma crossed the kitchen with a burst of energy and renewed purpose. She wanted to dispel the mood, return things to normal, for although their thoughtlessness still rankled, she was not one to bear a grudge for long. She spied Frank at the set pot. He was calm again and with great concentration was preparing the sandwiches for their lunch and tea breaks, which they took to work with them in their jock boxes. She hurried over to join him, rolling up her sleeves purposefully, the air crackling with her vitality.
‘Frank, lad, whatever do yer think yer doing!’ she cried when she reached the boy, her eyes widening in surprise, her head bobbing from side to side in her excitement. ‘Lathering that dripping on like there’s no termorrow!’ She grabbed the knife from the startled boy’s hand and, clucking in mild irritation, she began to scrape some of the dripping off the bread. These scrapings she thriftily returned to the brown stone jar that stood on the wooden chopping board which covered the set pot opening. ‘We’re not gentry yet, our Frank,’ she went on, and expertly finished making the sandwiches herself, folding the bread cakes over and cutting them in half decisively and with a little flourish.
Frank shrank from Emma, his lower lip trembling, his hazel eyes brimming with hot tears, his small face pinched and scared. Frank was twelve and small for his age. He had a head of fair hair as soft as duck’s down, a milky skin, and a gentle face, almost girlish in its prettiness. Much to his humiliation, his sweet appearance had earned him the nicknames of ‘Sissy’ and ‘Nancy’ at the Fairley mill, where he worked as a bobbin ligger. Under Winston’s expert tuition he had learned to fight back with his fists, but his preference was to walk away from the taunts and jibes, his head held high, ignoring them. And that was the way he would be all of his life, always sensitive and thin-skinned, but capable of turning the other cheek, proudly and with disdain.
His fair hair fell over his eyes and he pushed it away nervously, turning pathetically to Winston, his defender, who had just finished washing at the sink. ‘I didn’t mean no harm, Winston,’ he said, and the tears slid down his freckled cheeks.
Winston had witnessed this scene at first with astonishment and then with amusement, aware that Emma’s brisk manner was her way of reasserting her motherly authority over them, and also of restoring their usual morning routine. He knew that her clucking and spluttering about the dripping was harmless. He put down the towel he had been using and pulled the younger boy to him, holding him comfortingly in the crook of his arm.
‘Well, I’ll go ter hell and back!’ he exclaimed, feigning horror, as he addressed his father. He bit his lip to hide a smile and continued, ‘I never thought I’d live ter see the day our Emma turned inter a nip scrape. I think some of old man Fairley’s habits have rubbed off on yon lass.’ He spoke mildly, all the hostility washed out of his eyes.
Emma whirled on them, her face flushed in the firelight that blazed up the chimney and filled her hair full of golden lights. She brandished the knife before her. ‘That’s not fair! I’m not a nip scrape! Am I, Dad?’ she appealed, and rushed on breathlessly before he could answer, ‘Anyway, old man Fairley’s that well off he’s bowlegged with brass and do yer know why? Because he wouldn’t nip a currant in two and give yer half. So there!’ She spoke heatedly, although not with anger, and there was an embarrassed expression on her