A Woman of Substance. Barbara Taylor BradfordЧитать онлайн книгу.
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!’ he exclaimed in his squeaky boy’s voice, which nonetheless was surprisingly firm.
‘That’s true, yer are,’ Emma replied, giving him a loving smile. ‘Well, we’d best get ready.’ She took the dishes they had been using to the sink, washed and dried them quickly, and then returned to the fireplace. Emma picked up her boots from the hearth, where her father had placed them to warm, and pulled them on decisively. As she was lacing up her boots, Emma stole a glance at Frank and thought impatiently: There he is, daydreaming again. A lot of good his dreams will do him! She rarely had time to indulge herself in fantasies, but when she did they were unromantically solid and practical. Her dreams were of warm coats for them all. Lots of beautiful black coal in the cellar. A larder stuffed to overflowing with smoked hams and wheels of cheese, hunks of beef, and row upon row of bottled fruits and vegetables, just like the pantry at the Hall. And gold sovereigns jingling in her purse, enough to buy all these necessities and luxuries for her mother and new boots for her father. She sighed. Frank dreamed of books and visiting London and riding in fine cabs and going to the theatre, dreams that were fed by the illustrated magazines she sometimes brought home from the Hall. And Winston dreamed of joining the navy and sailing around the world and having an adventurous life in exotic places. Frank and Winston dreamed of pleasure and glory. Emma, when she had the time to dream, dreamed of survival.
She sighed again. She would willingly settle for a few extra shillings a week to help them along, never mind gold sovereigns. She stood up purposefully and went and put on her coat, calling to Frank, ‘Don’t sit there gawping like a sucking duck, lad. Get yer coat on. It’s twenty ter six and I’ll be late if I don’t hurry now.’
She handed Frank his coat and scarf, which he tied around his neck. Emma, clucking and shaking her head, immediately untied the scarf and wrapped it around his small fair head, fastening it tightly under his chin. She picked up his flat cap and slapped it firmly on top of the scarf, ignoring his wriggling and his protestations.
‘Oh, Emma, I don’t like me scarf this way,’ he cried defiantly. ‘The other lads laugh at me and say I’m a sissy.’
‘It won’t keep yer ears warm around yer neck and I’ve told yer afore, Frank, don’t pay no heed to what folks say. Now come on and look sharp about it.’
She tied on her own scarf, handed Frank his jock box, glanced around the room once more, and then blew out the candle. Gripping Frank’s hand tightly in hers, she pulled him out of the cottage.
They emerged into a black dawn and the cold hit them in an icy blast, moisture-laden and full of frost. The two children hurried down the flagged path, past the shrivelled and frozen elder and lilac bushes in the meagre little garden, its bleak inhospitable soil as hard and unrelenting as iron. The only sound was the whining of the wind and the sharp slap of their boots against the cold stones as they made their way down Top Fold. This small cul-de-sac of cottages where they lived was set high up in Fairley village. Behind it was the higher background of the sweeping moors and it was an isolated spot, desolate and uninviting, and only the pale lights that gleamed in some of the cottage windows gave credence to the idea that it was inhabited. When they finally reached the top of the street, Frank lifted his cold little face to Emma and said, ‘Shall I stop at me Aunt Lily’s then?’
‘Yes, luv. And tell her ter go ter see me mam early this morning. Tell her she’s been rambling a bit but was resting quiet when we left. And don’t stop chattering ter me Aunt Lily for long. Yer knows the gaffer closes the mill gates at six o’clock sharp. If yer gets locked out yer’ll have ter wait ’til eight o’clock and they’ll dock yer wages. And be a good lad!’ She kissed his face and pulled his cap down more tightly on his head.
‘Will yer wait and watch me till I gets to Aunt Lily’s?’ Frank asked, trying hard not to show that he was frightened at this hour. Emma nodded. ‘Yes, luv. Go on then.’
Frank ran off into the mist, occasionally sliding on the cobblestones, which were slippery and glazed over with hoary frost. She watched his little figure streaking down the street until he was just a faint outline in the murky light. But she could hear his boots hitting the cobbles and when they stopped she knew he had reached their aunt’s house, a small cottage on this main street that slanted down to the village and the river Aire. His loud banging on the door with his tin jock box reassured her that he had indeed reached his destination. He’ll waken the dead as well as me Aunt Lily, she thought wryly, and then she wished she had not thought of the dead Emma shivered as she turned in the opposite direction and headed towards the moors.
She was a solitary yet gallant figure, in her long black skirt and shabby coat, which was far too small, as she trudged doggedly and bravely on towards Fairley Hall, her eyes occasionally lifting to scan the leaden sky and the bleak dark moors that stretched in an unending line before her.
The hills that rise up in an undulating sweep to dominate Fairley village and the stretch of the Aire Valley below it are always dark and brooding in the most clement of weather. But when the winter sets in for its long and deadly siege the landscape is brushstroked in grisaille beneath ashen clouds and the moors take on a savage desolateness, the stark fells and bare hillsides drained of all colour and bereft of life. The rain and snow drive down endlessly and the wind that blows in from the North Sea is fierce and raw. These gritstone hills, infinitely more sombre than the green moors of the nearby limestone dale country, sweep through vast silences broken only by the mournful wailing of the wind, for even the numerous little becks, those tumbling, dappled streams that relieve the monotony in spring and