The Emma Harte 7-Book Collection: A Woman of Substance, Hold the Dream, To Be the Best, Emma’s Secret, Unexpected Blessings, Just Rewards, Breaking the Rules. Barbara Taylor BradfordЧитать онлайн книгу.
hardly daring to look at her again, and as he got up off the bed his movements were jerky and disjointed, almost as if he had relinquished command of his great body. He crossed the bedroom in three quick strides. ‘Come on, Winston, kiss thee mam and let’s be off. We’re running late, lad,’ he called brusquely.
Winston and Frank each kissed their mother and moved away from the bed to the door with the utmost quiet. Winston had not addressed a remark to Emma since his teasing in the kitchen earlier, and now he gave her one of his most charming and breezy smiles, and said from the top of the stairs. ‘See yer Saturday, Emma. Ta’rar, luv.’
She waved and smiled. ‘Ta’rar, Winston,’ adding as an afterthought, ‘Frank, yer’d best finish getting ready for work. I’ll be down right sharpish and we can leave together.’ Frank nodded, his little head bobbing up and down, his pale face serious. ‘Yes, Emma,’ he cried, and clattered noisily down the steps after Winston.
Emma sat down on the edge of the bed. ‘Do yer need owt afore I go, Mam?’
Elizabeth shook her head. ‘The tea was good, luv. It’s all I need till yer Aunt Lily comes, and I’m not hungry.’
She’s never hungry. How will she ever be well if she never eats? Emma asked herself, and said with a cheerfulness she did not feel, ‘All right, Mam, but yer must eat the food me Aunt Lily brings when she comes. Yer must keep up yer strength.’
Elizabeth smiled faintly. ‘I will, luv.’
‘Shall I blow out the candle?’ Emma asked, preparing to leave.
Elizabeth looked lovingly at the girl. ‘Aye, yer can when yer go. I’ll rest a while. Yer a good lass, Emma. I don’t know what I’d do without yer. Now get yerself off ter the Hall. I don’t want yer ter be late, when Mrs Turner let yer come home ter see me in the middle of the week. And be a good lass. Mrs Fairley’s a real lady, that she is.’
‘Yes, Mam,’ Emma whispered, blinking back the tears. She kissed her mother with great tenderness and rearranged the bedclothes, patting the pillows and straightening the sheet and quilt with her usual efficiency. As she pulled the bedclothes up around Elizabeth she said, ‘I’ll try and find a sprig of heather on me way home on Saturday, Mam. Perhaps there’s a bit the frost didn’t get, under the crags.’
Jack and Winston had gone to the brickyard and Frank was alone in the kitchen, which was now dimly lit, for Jack had turned out the paraffin lamp as he always did when he left for work. The only illumination came from a candle on the table and the fire, which occasionally flared and momentarily filled the room with a sudden lambent light. Dusky shadows lurked eerily on the perimeters of the kitchen and the air was hushed, except for the intermittent crackling of the logs, which hissed and spurted from time to time.
Frank sat in one of the high-backed chairs by the fireside and the chair dwarfed him, so enormous was it, and he appeared much smaller and more fragile than he actually was. The boy was smallboned and delicate, yet for all that he was surprisingly wiry and tough, like a little terrier.
This morning he seemed forlorn in his grey work shirt and baggy trousers, hand-me-downs from Winston, and his legs in their carefully darned grey socks, dangling over the edge of the chair, looked pathetic and far too weak to lift the great boots, which were too large and ugly and had also once belonged to Winston. But in reality, and in spite of his appearance, there was nothing forlorn about Frank Harte, for he occupied an inner world so filled with beautiful images and soaring dreams and expectations, it made his day-to-day existence seem totally inconsequential. And this perfect world protected him from the harshness of their poverty-stricken life, nourished him so completely he was, for the most part, quite oblivious to the deprivations and spartan conditions in which they lived.
Essentially Frank was a happy little boy, content to retreat into his imagination, one that was vivid and fertile, and the only time he had been truly dismayed and saddened was when he had left the church school in the village last summer. It was with a degree of resignation that he had stoically accepted the fact that he had to work in the mill with the other young boys, collecting empty yarn bobbins. His father had told him regretfully yet firmly that they needed the few shillings he would bring home every week and so he had left school when he had reached twelve years. He had been an astonishingly acute and avid pupil, soaking up knowledge with a rapidity and understanding that had utterly amazed the teacher. She thought he was unique and was distressed to discover his fate was to be the mill. She knew he was capable of so much more if only he was given the chance; she also knew he was doomed by the circumstances of his birth.
Although Frank no longer went to school, he continued his studies as best he could on his own. He read and reread the meagre collection of threadbare books his mother owned and anything else he could get his hands on. Words were somehow awesome and yet magical to Frank, and he loved them with a deep intensity that bordered on veneration. He would form and re-form sentences in his head and continually wrote little snatches of prose on the precious bits of paper that Emma brought home for him from the Hall. He was constantly caught up in abstract ideas, although he did not yet comprehend they were abstract ideas, and these ideas puzzled and challenged him. For Frank Harte had a truly genuine intellect, one that was to develop with great brilliance later in his life.
Now he sat staring steadily into the fire, a mug of tea in his small hands, a rapt expression on his face, and his eyes, so dreamy and faraway, saw endless and incredible visions amongst the flickering flames.
The door creaked and startled him and he lifted his head sharply and looked about. Emma came into the room, silent and preoccupied. Frank began to sip his tea, his hazel eyes peering over the rim of the mug, following her progress around the room. She stopped at the window, moved the curtain, and, looking out, said, without turning to him, ‘It’s still dark outside, but we don’t have ter leave just yet. We can wait a bit longer until it’s lighter and I’ll run part of the way ter the Hall, so I won’t be late.’
Frank put the mug down on the hearth and said, ‘Me dad filled the teapot with hot water and he told me ter make yer a sandwich. It’s there, on the set pot.’
She eyed the sandwich warily, and noticing the expression on her face, Frank exclaimed defensively, ‘I didn’t lather it with dripping. I put it on and scraped it off, just like yer said, our Emma.’ There was a hidden smile on Emma’s face and her eyes crinkled with amusement as she poured herself a mug of tea and put the sandwich on the plate. She carried them both over to the fireplace and sat down opposite Frank. She munched on her sandwich abstractedly, still worrying about her mother.
Her little brother regarded her thoughtfully and with some curiosity, for he was extremely susceptible to Emma, whom he adored. He constantly sought her approbation, but in his anxiety to please he usually did something ridiculously foolish which irritated her and so incurred her disfavour. However, this was usually short-lived. There was not a little admiration in his pale eyes as he leaned forward and said confidingly, and with great solemnity, ‘I’m glad yer stopped ’em fighting. I’m scared when they shout. I am that, Emma.’
She looked at him absently, lost in her thoughts, as she put the plate down on the hearth. ‘I knows. But it’s always over nowt, lad.’
‘Well, it still scares me,’ he went on quickly, ‘that’s why I was lathering the dripping on too thick afore, yer knows. I was nervous,’ he finished, trying to completely exonerate himself with her.
Emma laughed. ‘Oooh! What a whopper that is, our Frankie!’ she chided.
The boy bristled. His thin body tensed and his mild eyes were suddenly fierce as he cried with unaccustomed passion, ‘Me mam says yer not ter call me Frankie, our Emma!’
Emma saw how serious he was and said with a smile, ‘Sorry, luv. Yer right, our mam does hate nicknames.’
Frank straightened himself in the chair, assuming a dignified and important air. ‘Me mam says I’m a great lad and Frankie is a baby name!’