Читать книгу A Woman of Substance - Barbara Taylor Bradford - Страница 17

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 summer, are frozen and stilled.

This great plateau of moorland stretches across countless untenanted miles towards Shipley and the vigorous industrial city of Leeds beyond. It is amazingly featureless, except for occasional soaring crags, a few blackened trees, shrivelled thorns, and abandoned ruined cottages that barely punctuate its cold and empty spaces. Perpetual mists, pervasive and thick, float over the rugged landscape, obscuring the highest peaks and demolishing the foothills, so that land and sky merge in an endless mass of grey that is dank and enveloping, and everything is diffused, without motion, wrapped in unearthly solitude. There is little evidence here of humanity, little to invite man into this inhospitable land at this time of year, and few venture out into its stark and lonely reaches.

But it was towards this harsh moorland that Emma so stoically marched on this icy February morning in 1904. The narrow winding road that snaked its way across the hills was the quickest route to Fairley Hall and Emma had to brave the moors in all seasons of the year and at all hours.

She shivered as she hurried along, and huddled further into her coat, which was a castoff from the Hall and offered as much protection as paper, threadbare and patched as it was. It had already been a sorry, worn-out bit of clothing when Cook had given it to her in the summer, but Emma had received it gratefully and she had patiently darned the holes and lengthened the hem and sewn on new buttons. She had outgrown it all too quickly, and it stretched across her back tightly. The sleeves were too short and her thin arms poked out pathetically in scarecrow fashion, exposing childish wrists to the elements. The wind bit treacherously through the meagre coat and the damp air drenched her, penetrating into her bones, so that her legs felt numbed and without life. She pulled her scarf more securely around her head and then thrust her chapped hands back into her pockets quickly. Her teeth chattered and her eyes watered from the icy blasts and she fervently wished she was already at the Hall, as much as she disliked that place.

By the time Emma reached the stone-walled field that led out to the moors she was breathless. She rested against the stile for a moment, her breathing still laboured, her heart thundering in her chest. She looked down the steep road she had just traversed. Below her the fog was patchy, clearing in parts, and in the distance she could see the twinkling lights now burning brightly in all the cottages, as the village awakened. Beyond, in the valley, there was a faint dim glow that told her that the Fairley mill was preparing for its daily business. Soon the shrill mill whistle would start to hoot, breaking the silence with its strident tones, announcing the opening of the gates. In a short time, the men and women of Fairley would be hurrying down to clock in and start another day of drudgery, combing the raw wool, spinning the fine woollens and worsted cloths that were shipped all over the world.

Emma looked lingeringly at the village where her mother lay, and which was also the last sign of life until she reached the Hall, and then she turned abruptly. She had rested long enough and now she must hurry if she was to reach the Hall by six o’clock, which was when Cook expected her. Emma hitched up her skirts, climbed over the stile, and jumped down into the field with agility. The ground under her feet was unyielding with frost and the mist floated and rolled in front of her, obliterating the dead gorse bushes and the few paltry, frost-bitten trees as it drifted over the landscape. Now and then banks of snow became visible, the fantastic glistening shapes illusory in the vaporous air, and to Emma there was something fearful, almost menacing about the moors at this hour. She shuddered but she pressed on bravely. She could hardly see the path, but she had been working at the Hall for two years now, and she knew it well, and her feet followed it with a degree of sureness. The crunching of her footsteps on the frosty earth was the only sound in the early-morning air.

Her thoughts turned to her father as she tramped along. Emma loved her father and understood the nature of him, but he had disturbed her not a little in the last few months. Her dad just wasn’t the same since he had returned from the Boer War. It seemed to Emma that all the spirit had ebbed out of him, and he was given to quiet withdrawn moods, yet conversely, he would often erupt into sudden almost uncontrollable anger, when Winston, or anyone other than herself or her mother, exasperated him.

These inconsistencies in her father’s behaviour and his wildly contrasting moods baffled Emma, and when he stared at her vacantly he seemed like a lost child. Sometimes she wanted to grab hold of him and shake him vigorously, in an effort to rouse him to renewed life. She was too small and fragile for that, so instead she would attempt to shake him out of his dejection with her questions, badgering him about money, reminding him of her mother’s sickness. His face always remained immobile and closed, but his eyes filled with pain. It was Elizabeth’s sickness and his sorrow for his wife that had changed Jack Harte and petrified his spirit, and rendered him virtually useless; it was not the war which had wrought the drastic upheaval in his nature.

But Emma, in her youthful naïveté, did not fully comprehend this. Passionately devoted to one singular pursuit, that of changing the constrained circumstances in which they lived, she was solely concerned with their survival, and this blinded her to anything else. All she knew was that her dad had no answers for her, no solutions to their problems. In an effort to placate her he would resort to the same old phrase he employed so often lately. ‘Things’ll get better soon, luv,’ he would say. Her brother Winston was always duped by this confident and optimistic mood of their father’s and his eyes would instantly shine with anticipation of better days. He would ask excitedly, ‘When, Dad? When?’ Emma’s pragmatic brain would scream, ‘How, Dad? How?’ although she never uttered a word. She was afraid to throw out this challenge when her father was attempting to reassure Winston and she also knew, unquestioningly and from past experience, that there would be no genuine response and that no practical ideas would be proffered. Emma, realist that she was, had acknowledged this inevitability months ago and she had come to accept it with resignation, since she did not know how to combat her father’s inertia and impotence, his procrastination and his lack of enterprise.

‘Nowt ever happens ter change our lot because me dad never does owt ter change it!’ Emma said aloud and with vehemence, as she scrambled over the low wall and out on to the moorland path beyond the field. Emma had not yet come to understand that when hope is taken away from a man he is left with nothing, sometimes not even the will to live. And all the hope had been kicked out of Jack Harte long ago.

She blew on her frozen hands and then pushed them back into her pockets, as she began her ascent up the lower slope that would lead her to Ramsden Ghyll and then on upwards, to the top of the moors and the road to Fairley Hall. Emma had not mentioned money to her father lately, but it never left her thoughts. They must have more money if they were to survive, if her mother was to regain her strength and her health. Emma knew that without money you were nothing, just a powerless and oppressed victim of the ruling class, a yoked and shackled beast of burden destined to a life of mindless drudgery, and an existence so wretched and so without hope, so filled with terror and despair that it was hardly worth the contemplation let alone the living. Without money you were susceptible to all the capricious whims and moods and fancies of the careless, thoughtless rich, to all the vicissitudes of life. Without money you were vulnerable to the world.

Since she had worked at Fairley Hall, Emma had come to understand many things. Blessed with acute observation, she was also innately shrewd and amazingly perceptive for her years. She had quickly seen and noted the outrageous and monstrous discrepancies between life at Fairley Hall and life in the village. The Fairleys lived in luxury, even splendour, pampered and totally isolated from the harsh realities of the lives of the workers, whose pitiless and endless toil financed their velvet-lined world of ease and privilege.

Observing the Fairleys and the way they lived, Emma had begun to comprehend that money did not only buy necessities, but so much else as well. She had come to realize that the possessor of money also possessed power, a most desirable asset to Emma, because she knew now that power made you invulnerable. It made you safe. By the same token, Emma had come to bitterly accept the fact that there was no justice or liberty for the poor. But she suspected, with the beginning of cynicism, that you could buy both quite easily. Just as easily as you could buy the medicines and nourishing food they needed for her mother, providing you had the right amount of shillings to place on the counter. Yes, she thought, money is the answer to everything.

There must be a way for me to earn more money, she decided as she made her way up the path. There were poor people and there were rich people in the world, and if some people could be rich then obviously so could others, she reasoned. Her father always said it was a question of birth and of luck. Emma was scornful of these ready answers, for she doubted their veracity, and so she refused to accept them. If a person came up with a brilliant plan and worked hard, harder than anyone else, then surely that person could earn money. Lots of it. A fortune perhaps. Emma had kept her eye on this goal for some time, never wavering, never truly discouraged, for what she lacked in experience of life she made up for with traits perhaps of greater value – intuition, imagination, and ambition. Instinctively Emma understood many things, and one of these was the cold hard fact that money was not necessarily always inherited or acquired by chance. She knew, in spite of what her father said, that there were other ways to amass a fortune. She sighed. It seemed to Emma, as she hurried along, chilled to the bone and full of despair about her mother, that she was all alone and friendless, battling the world without a helping hand or an encouraging word from anyone. But she had determined months ago that she would not let this defeat her. She would find a way to make money, lots of it, for only then would they be safe.

Her feet followed the narrow path and in spite of the denseness of the fog, she knew she was reaching the top of the lower slope, for she was panting and her legs were aching from climbing. She shivered under the rising wind that whistled down from the high fells, and pulled up the collar of her coat. Her hands were frozen stiff, but her feet were warm. Her father had repaired her boots just the week before, buying strong leather from the tannery and thick felt for the inner soles. She had stood by him and watched as he had cut the soles and hammered them firmly on to the worn uppers, cobbling the boots on the old iron last in the kitchen. She thought, too, of the steaming hot broth Cook would have waiting for her, and the warmth of the huge kitchen at the Hall, and these incentives made her hurry.

A few skeletal trees loomed up in front of her in the relentless environment, stark and spectral against the glassy green sky. Her heart began to pound rapidly, partially from exertion, but also from dread, for beyond these lone trees the path plummeted down into Ramsden Ghyll, a dell between the hills. The Ghyll was the spot Emma hated most on her journey to the Hall, for it was an eerie place, filled with grotesque rock formations and blasted tree stumps. The mist, trapped as it was between the twin peaks that soared above the dell, gathered and coagulated into heavy grey darkness that was almost impassable.

Emma was nervous of this place, but nonetheless she hurried on, chiding herself for her nervousness as she plunged down the path into the Ghyll. She was afraid of the beasties and the goblins and the spectres of the moor which seemed to float vapour-like, yet so threateningly, amongst these great rocks formed of millstone grit. She was afraid, too, of the lost souls the villagers superstitiously said haunted the Ghyll. To block out the images of goblins and monsters and lost souls, she began to sing in her head. She never sang aloud at this hour on the moors, for fear of waking the dead. She did not know many songs, except for the few they had all learned at school, and she found these insipid and childish. So instead she sang ‘Onward, Christian Soldiers’, forming the words silently and marching bravely along to the rhythmic beat that ran through her head.

She was halfway across the Ghyll when the words were suddenly swept away. Emma stopped tramping and stood perfectly still. She was transfixed, listening acutely. Just below the level of the wind she heard it, a low lumbering sound as if something huge and powerful, and propelled by immense force, was coming down the path from the other side of the Ghyll. She shrank back against a formation of rocks and held her breath, fear trickling through her like icy water. And then he was standing there before her, not an inchoate monster like a rock or a tree, but a wholly formed monster, a man, who was enormously tall and who peered down to stare at her through the swirling fog.

Emma sucked in her breath and clenched her fists in her pockets. She wondered frantically whether she should dart out in front of him and run back along the path, but she was so paralysed with terror she could not move. And then the monster spoke and terrified her even more.

‘Faith and if it’s not me good fortune, to be sure, to be meeting a spry young colleen on these blasted moors at this ungodly hour. ’Tis the Divil’s own place, I am thinking, and no fit land to be a-wandering in, on this cold morning.’

Emma was speechless. She looked up at the man who towered above her, but she was unable to distinguish his features in the murky light. She pressed herself closer into a crevice between the rocks, wishing she could dissolve into it, her eyes starting out of her head in alarm.

The man spoke again, his voice ghostly and disembodied coming to her through the mist. ‘Ah, and ’tis afeared the little colleen is, and no wonder, a startling ye like I did. But it’s only a stupid man that I am to be sure, that has lost himself in this blasted fog on his way to Fairley Hall. Can ye be pointing me in the right direction and I’ll be on me way?’

Her heart beat less frenziedly, but Emma was still trembling and afraid, for a stranger on these moors – and he was indeed a stranger – could be just as dangerous as any monster. Her father had warned her never to talk to anyone she did not know, who was not from the valley, and who was therefore a ‘foreigner’ in the parts, and suspect. She flattened herself against the rocks, wishing he would go away, pressing her lips firmly together. Perhaps if she did not respond to his questions he would disappear as suddenly as he had appeared.

‘Faith and I am thinking that the cat’s got her tongue. Sure and that’s it,’ the man continued, as if addressing a third person. Emma bit her lip and looked about her anxiously. There seemed to be no one else there, although it was hard to tell in the greying light.

‘I won’t be harming ye, little colleen,’ the strange voice went on. ‘Just show me the way to Fairley Hall and I’ll be on me way, to be sure I will.’

Emma still could not see the man’s face, for it was lost in the mist that engulfed them both. She looked down. She could make out his great feet encased in hobnail boots and the bottoms of his trousers. He had not moved a fraction from the spot where he had first stopped, but had remained stationary, as if he sensed that any sudden movement on his part would send her scurrying out of her hiding place, such as it was, and off into the fog in terror.

He cleared his throat and said again, more softly, ‘I won’t be a-harming ye, little one. Don’t be afeared of me.’

There was something in the tone of his voice that made Emma relax her taut muscles. Slowly the quivering in her limbs began to subside. He had a strange voice, but it was lovely, musical and lilting, and different from any voice she had ever heard before. And then Emma, listening acutely, and with all of her senses alerted in anticipation of trouble, realized how gentle his voice was, recognized with a sudden rush of clarity that it was filled with kindness and warmth. Still, he was a stranger. Then much to her horror and with some surprise, Emma found herself asking involuntarily, ‘Why do yer want ter go ter the Hall then?’ She was so angry with herself she could have bitten her tongue off.

‘I be going there to repair the chimneys and the flues. It was himself who came to see me last week. Squire Fairley. Yes, indeed, himself came to visit me in Leeds and was kind enough and generous, too, he was, I might be adding, to be offering me the job.’

Emma eyed the man suspiciously, lifting her damp face to peer at him through the mist. He was the tallest man she had ever seen and he was roughly dressed in workman’s clothes and he had a sack slung over his shoulder.

‘Are yer a navvy then?’ she now asked with some caution, for she had just remembered that Cook had told her that a navvy had been engaged to do repair work and bricklaying at the Hall.

The man roared with laughter, a deep belly laugh that shook his whole vast frame. ‘I am that, to be sure. Shane O’Neill’s the name, but the whole world calls me Blackie.’

Emma squinted up at him again, trying to examine his face in the dim and vaporous air. ‘Yer not a blackamoor, are yer?’ she asked tremulously, and then rebuked herself for her stupidity. O’Neill was an Irish name and that explained his singsong speech, which was so unfamiliar to her. But she had heard of the Irish brogue and surely this was it.

Her question seemed to tickle this giant even more and he laughed again, saying, ‘No, I’m not a blackamoor. Just a black Irishman. And what might yer be called?’

She hesitated again. Emma believed that the less people knew about you, the better off you were, the safer you were, for if they knew nothing they could do you no harm. But to her fresh amazement she found herself telling him, ‘Emma. Emma Harte’s me name.’

‘Pleased to be a meeting ye, Emma Harte. Well then, now as we are acquainted, so to speak, will ye be kind enough to put me on the road to Fairley Hall, please?’

‘It’s the way yer came, back yonder,’ Emma said, shivering, now thoroughly chilled from lingering in the damp and icy dell. Then once again, much to her annoyance but before she could stop herself, she explained, ‘I’m going ter the Hall. Yer can walk with me if yer wants.’

‘Why, thank ye, Emma. So, let us be a-marching! ’Tis divilish cold and damp out here. Worse than the bogs of the ould sod in winter!’ the man declared, stamping his feet on the frozen earth in an effort to warm them.

Emma slipped out from her hiding place amongst the rocks, and led the way up the track that would take them out of Ramsden Ghyll and on to the flat plateau of moors that stretched all the way to Fairley Hall. It was a narrow and somewhat precarious track, rising steeply upwards, and they had to walk in single file. Emma hurried in front of the Irishman, scrambling and sliding about in her haste to be out of the dell. They did not speak, for it was a steep hill and strenuous to traverse. Also, the path itself was rough, and scattered as it was with rocks and gnarled tree roots embedded in the frozen ground, it was exceedingly treacherous and dangerous in winter.

When they came up out of the Ghyll and on to the flat plateau the mist had dispersed, blown away by the gusting wind that roared down from the soaring fells. The morning air was tinged with opal and the livid sky was filling with incandescent light, a light that seemed to emanate from some hidden source below the horizon, a light peculiar to these northern climes that blazed with the most intense clarity. It was flooding the hump line of hills with sudden bright radiance, so that they were as burnished and shimmering as molten brass.

Emma stopped, panting for breath, and turned to look towards Ramsden Crags in the distance, as she always did. ‘Look at the horses,’ she said, pointing to the huge crags that were poised in solitary splendour against the horizon.

Blackie O’Neill followed her gaze and caught his breath. The girl was right. The rocks did look like great horses rearing up against the skyline, their roughhewn shapes suddenly taking on life, as if they were giant mythical steeds galloping across the heavens and glimmering like struck gold in the radiant light.

‘Why, ’tis a beautiful sight. What is that place?’ Blackie asked.

‘Ramsden Crags, but the villagers sometimes call it Flying Horses. Me mam calls it the Top of the World,’ Emma confided.

‘And indeed it looks as if it is just that, to be sure it does,’ Blackie murmured, dumping his sack on the ground and breathing deeply of the fresh air, now that they were out of the misty Ghyll.

Emma had not yet really looked fully at Blackie O’Neill. He had been behind her on the path leading out of the dell and he stood behind her now at the edge of the Ghyll. Her mother had always instilled good manners in her, and had told her that it was rude to stare, but now Emma’s curiosity got the better of her and she permitted herself to turn slowly. She looked up at the man who had so scared her initially and she was startled to see that he was young, perhaps no more than eighteen. And he was quite the most extraordinary man she had ever set eyes upon.

Blackie returned her gaze, smiling broadly, and in a flash of insight the girl knew why she had so inexplicably lost her fear of him in the Ghyll. In spite of his size, and his roughness of dress, there was something ineffably gentle and fine about this man, both in his expression and in his general demeanour. His face was open, friendly, and quite guileless, and his wide smile was warm, and sunny and somewhat mischievous, while his dark eyes were kind and understanding. Emma found herself smiling back at him unabashedly, warming to him in a way that was unprecedented for her, as wary and suspicious of strangers as she always was.

‘Yer can’t see the Hall from here,’ Emma explained, ‘but it’s not far now, just over the crest of the moors yonder. Come on, I’ll show yer the way, Blackie!’ she cried enthusiastically, much taken with her new friend.

Blackie nodded and lifting the large sack, he slung it over one shoulder with apparent ease, as if it were a small and insignificant bundle in his large strong hands. He fell into step with Emma, who was already marching briskly along the top road, and began to whistle nonchalantly, his head thrown back, his vibrant curls blowing in the breeze.

From time to time, Emma looked up at him surreptitiously. She had never met anyone like him before and he fascinated her. Blackie, in turn, was not unconscious of this scrutiny; in fact, he was very much aware of it and it amused him. He had sized up the girl in a flash, for he was quick and had a perceptive eye. He guessed she must be about fourteen, or thereabouts, and a local girl going on an errand to Fairley Hall. She was such a small sprite. No wonder he had frightened her in the fog. As they traversed the road together he smiled, admiring the stalwart way she stepped out, endeavouring to keep up with his long strides. He slowed down considerably when he saw how breathless she was becoming.

Shane Patrick Desmond O’Neill, commonly known to the world as Blackie, was about six feet three inches tall, but he appeared to be so much bigger in stature because of the largeness of his frame, his broad sweeping back and his powerful shoulders. He was brawny and well built, but there was no excess flesh on him. He was all muscle and sinew. He exuded virility, a ruddy health, and indomitable strength. He had long legs and a surprisingly narrow and well-defined waist below an expansive chest. It was easy to understand why the world called him Blackie. His thick heavy hair, which flowed back from a clear brow, was as black as ebony and just as shiny, and his eyes, of a brown so deep they also looked black, resembled great chunks of glittering coal. Set widely apart, under thick curving brows, these eyes were large and soft and very often wise, although they could gleam and flash with anger when Blackie’s temper was aroused. Likewise they could just as easily turn mournful and tragic when his Celtic soul was troubled by melancholy thoughts. But, for the most part, they were filled with merriment.

His skin was dark, yet not swarthy; rather, it was a nut brown and tinged with ruddiness across his high cheekbones, a sort of light mahogany colour that undoubtedly came from long exposure to the elements. His nose was straight and fairly narrow, although it broadened slightly at the tip, and his nostrils were flaring. His wide mouth and long Irish upper lip betrayed his Celtic origins. He had a cleft in his strongly moulded chin and when he laughed, which was often, his cheeks dimpled and his face took on an amazing vitality.

Blackie O’Neill was, in fact, an exceptionally handsome young man. But it was his manner and his attitude that were most intriguing and which, in many ways, set Blackie apart from other men. He exuded liveliness and gaiety. His face was full of vivacity, and it had great mobility and not a little wit. An easy, careless charm was second nature to him, and he was buoyant of spirit, as if he accepted life for what it was, and was constantly entertained by it. There was a lighthearted self-confidence inherent in him, and to Emma, observing him, he seemed untouched by the weariness and the fear and the hopelessness that haunted the men of the village, bowing them down and ageing them prematurely.

For the first time in her young life Emma had met someone with an unquenchable spirit and a soul that was joyous and without rancour, a man who loved his life and lived it to the fullest, and she had a vague glimmering of all this, and it intrigued and mystified and impressed her.

As she hurried along next to this handsome young giant her eyes turned to him often, and she found she was filled with an intense and voracious inquisitiveness about him. He was a cheerful companion, who in the oddest and most inexplicable way made her feel safe as he tramped by her side, saying little, smiling his vivid smile, sometimes whistling merrily, his bright eyes scanning the crest of the moors expectantly, anticipating the sight of the spires of Fairley Hall. And something of his light and genial good humour seemed to mysteriously transfer itself to Emma, and her face, so unremittingly stern and intent for one so young, was softened by a hint of hidden gaiety.

She was taken by surprise when Blackie opened his mouth and began to sing, his rich baritone filling the silent air with the most melodious sweet sounds that startled her, so beautiful were they.

‘The Minstrel Boy to the war is gone,

In the ranks of death you’ll find him.

His father’s sword he has girded on,

And his wild harp slung behind him …’

As she listened to Blackie singing, Emma was filled with a swift and piercing pain, and tears rushed to her eyes, for she was touched in a way she had never been before. There was something hauntingly sad yet bittersweet about the words and the poignant melody, and her throat ached with the tears, so sudden, so unexpected, which she tried to choke back, afraid of appearing childish, and even a little foolish, to this man as he finished the ballad of the Minstrel Boy.

Blackie looked at her, and observing the glistening tears that trembled on her lashes, asked softly, ‘Did ye not like me song then, little one?’

Emma swallowed deeply and cleared her throat several times. Finally she was able to speak. ‘Oh yes, I did, Blackie. I really did. It’s just that it’s so sad.’ She brushed her hand across her eyes, wiping away the tears quickly, and noting the look of concern clouding his face, she added hurriedly, ‘But yer have a luvely voice, yer do that.’ She smiled, hoping her tears had not offended him.

Blackie had been surprised by the girl’s sensitive and emotional reaction to his singing, and he returned her smile and said with great gentleness, ‘Aye, ’tis a sad song to be sure, but a beautiful one, Emma. Still and all, ’tis only an old ballad. Ye must not be upset. And since ye are kind enough to say ye like me voice, such as it is, I’ll be singing ye a song that will surely make ye laugh, I am thinking.’

And he did. His rich and splendid voice formed the most merry sounds now, the lively words of an Irish jig tripping lightly from his facile tongue. He had purposely selected an amusing bit of nonsense, filled with tongue-twisting clan names, and soon Emma was laughing delightedly, the momentary sadness of the ballad forgotten in her newly found merriment.

When he had finished she cried gaily, ‘That was funny. Yer’ll have ter sing it for Mrs Turner, the cook at the Hall. She’ll like it, I bet she will, and I bet it’ll make her laugh.’

‘Sure and will I not be happy to, Emma,’ Blackie replied kindly, and then he said curiously, ‘And why are ye off to Fairley Hall so early in the day, might I be asking?’

‘I’m in service there,’ Emma answered solemnly, returning his friendly gaze with unflickering, steady eyes.

‘Indeed ye are, are ye! And what can a little snippet like ye do to earn ye keep?’ he asked.

‘I’m the kitchen maid.’ Seeing her half-averted eyes, the downcast drooping of her mouth, and the grim expression that swept across her face, Blackie decided she did not savour her work at the Hall. She volunteered no more information, and retreated behind the mask-like expression which had settled on her small countenance. Sensing her discomfort, he did not question her further and they walked on in silence, something of the gaiety they had so recently shared washed away in the wake of her mood, which had so abruptly changed.

She was a funny little thing to Blackie, this colleen of the moors whom he had come upon so unexpectedly, a shabby starveling creature, all skin and bone. This Emma Harte looked to him as if she needed a good meal, several good meals, for many months to come. Indeed she did. She was a poverty-stricken child who should be at home and in bed, and not wandering these moors, so godforsaken and lifeless, at the crack of dawn in the midst of a bitter winter.

In spite of her shabbiness, her clothes were tidy and neatly patched, and he could see that her face was scrubbed and shining clean. Not that too much of that face was visible, swathed as it was in the thick black woollen scarf. But her eyes, whenever she turned them on him, were of incredible beauty. They were large and luminous and vividly green, just about the greenest eyes he had ever seen.

Emma cut into Blackie’s thoughts when she asked, ‘Yer said afore yer were a black Irishman. What’s that, then?’ Blackie turned to Emma and saw that the stark strained look had disappeared from her face.

His eyes held a mischievous glint as he said, ‘Well, mavourneen, not a blackamoor from Africa, as ye suspected, but a man with my colouring, the black hair and the black eyes ’tis said we inherited from the Spanish.’

She had been about to ask him what ‘mavourneen’ meant, but this last statement so astounded her the question was swept out of her mind. ‘Spanish! There aren’t no Spanish in Ireland. I knows better’n that!’ Emma scoffed with a degree of fierceness, her eyes flashing. ‘I’ve been ter school, yer knows,’ she informed Blackie as an afterthought, and proudly, wondering if he thought she was a fool.

Blackie was amused by her reaction, but he kept a straight face. ‘Then, being as how ye are such an ejicated young colleen, ye must be a knowing that King Philip of Spain sent a great Armada to invade England in the time of Queen Elizabeth. ’Tis said that some of the galleons foundered and sank off the coast of Ireland and that the survivors, Spaniards all, settled in the Emerald Isle. ’Tis them, they say, the black Irish are descended from, and maybe that’s the God’s truth, I am thinking.’

‘I know about Spain and that Armada, but I didn’t know owt about the Spaniards living in Ireland,’ said Emma, looking up at him carefully.

There was such scepticism in her eyes that Blackie slapped his leg and roared with laughter. ‘Faith and it’s doubting me that she is! But ’tis the truth I be telling ye, Emma. On the heads of the Blessed Saints I do swear it’s the truth I am speaking, mavourneen.’

Emma now said challengingly, ‘Hey, what does that mean, that word “mavourneen”? Yer keep calling me that, Blackie. I never did hear such a word afore. It’s not rude, is it?’

Blackie shook his head, his vital curls rippling and dancing as he did, the perpetual laughter flickering in his eyes and across his wide mouth. ‘It’s the Irish word for dear or darlin’, Emma. Like the word “luv” the Yorkshire folk are always using. It ain’t no rude word, little colleen. Affectionate is the best way of describing it, I am thinking. Besides, who would be rude to a spry young ejicated lady like ye?’ he finished, adopting his most serious voice, his most gallant manner.

‘Oh, aye,’ Emma said, a flick of that hard Yorkshire scepticism noticeable in her voice.

There was a small silence and then, half turning and touching his arm impulsively, she asked, ‘Do yer live in Leeds then, Blackie?’ Her face was suddenly animated and interested and he sensed a new excitement in her.

‘I do. I do. Sure and it’s a grand town. Have ye ever been there, Emma?’

Her face fell. ‘No. But I will go one day! Me dad promised ter take me on a day trip, and I knows he will when he can spare the time like.’

And the money for the fares, Blackie thought astutely. But detecting the lack of conviction in her voice, and sensing her dejection, he said vigorously and with some positiveness, ‘Sure and he will, Emma! Faith and ye will find it the most exciting place. Aye, ’tis exceedingly exciting. And busy! A virtual metropolis, I am thinking. It has great arcades with the most wondrous shops filled with grand finery for the ladies, and the gents, too. Yes, finery like a queen would wear, Emma. Silk and satin gowns beyond description. Beautiful hats with great feathery plumes and veils, fancy stockings and soft leather buttoned boots and parasols and reticules. All ye little heart could be desiring. And silk cravats for the gents as can afford ’em. Aye, and diamond stickpins, too, and ebony walking canes with silver knobs and sleek top hats. Such finery like ye never did see in ye whole life, I am thinking, Emma.’

Blackie paused, and then observing the wonderment in her eyes, the vibrancy now illuminating her face, and acutely aware of her eagerness to hear more, he continued his description of Leeds. ‘There are elegant restaurants serving the most incredible delicacies to tempt ye palate, Emma. And dance halls, and a music hall called the City Varieties and plush theatres where they put on plays that come all the way up from London town. Why, I’ve seen Vesta Tilley and Marie Lloyd on the stage in Leeds meself, with me own eyes, mavourneen. Then there are the new tramcars. Amazing vehicles, to be sure, that run on tracks without the need for horses to pull ’em any more. They go from the Corn Exchange to all parts of town. I have ridden on one, sure and I have. I sat on the top deck, that’s open to the world and the weather, viewing the town like a real gent. Faith and there are many wonders to see in Leeds, yes indeed.’

Emma’s eyes glowed, all the weariness and worry which had enveloped her earlier that morning miraculously dissipated, her imagination inflamed, and her emotions stirred most palpably by Blackie’s recital. She attempted, as always, to contain herself, but in her anxiousness for further information about this most extraordinary place, her voice rose and became shrill. ‘Why did yer got ter live in Leeds then, Blackie? Tell me more about it!’

‘I went to live in Leeds because there was no work in me native Ireland.’ His voice dropped, was low now and sad, yet there was no disgruntlement or rancour in it, only dim resignation.

‘It was me Uncle Pat, settled in Leeds for this many a year, who did bid me come over to be a working by his side as a navvy. Lots of work in Leeds, being as how it’s a growing metropolis, as I told ye afore, Emma. When I saw all the new manufactories going up and the mills and the foundries, as well as the handsome carriages and the elegant houses of the gentry, I thought to meself: Sure and this is the place for a boyo like ye, Blackie O’Neill, a spalpeen that’s not afeared of hard work, strong and brawny and a match for any man. This is indeed the place to be a-staying, faith and it is, for the streets are surely paved with gold! A man can make a fortune in Leeds, I was believing, so stay I did. That was five years ago. Now me Uncle Pat and me have our own business going. We do repair work and building for the mill-owners and the gentry. Doing well, sure and we are, little colleen. Small it is now, but I know it will be growing. Ye see, I aim to be rich one day. I am going to make meself a pile and be a millionaire!’

He tossed his head cockily and laughed, his face full of youthful optimism. He put his arm around her shoulders and said confidentially and with the utmost self-assurance, ‘I aim to get me a diamond stickpin and be an elegant gent, a real toff, that I do, mavourneen. On the Blessed Heads of the Saints, I swear I do!’

Emma had listened attentively. Blackie’s account had been thrilling and it had held her spellbound, had aroused all manner of longings within her. But it was that magical word ‘fortune’ that had made the most profound impact on her. Thoughts of fancy clothes and theatres were swept away. Those things were insignificant in comparison to Blackie’s revelations about the opportunities for making a fortune in Leeds. Here was someone after her own heart, who knew that money could be earned as well as inherited. Emma’s heart was pounding so hard she thought her chest would burst, and now it took all of her strength for her to retain her composure. She felt she could not speak and then, at last, ‘Can a girl like me make a fortune in Leeds?’ she asked, breathless in her anticipation of his answer.

This was the last thing Blackie had expected. He was dumbfounded. He stared down at Emma and saw the starveling girl who reached only up to his chest, so fragile and wan and undernourished, and his heart clenched with feelings of pity and protectiveness. Poor little mavourneen, he thought, I should have held me tongue. Fool that I am, filling her head with dreams of a better life, a world she’ll never see. He was about to answer her negatively when, with a terrible clarity, he recognized the gleam in her eyes for what it was – ambition, raw and inexorable. He took in the face, now suddenly stern in its fixity, the eyes blazing hard green light. It was the most implacable face he had ever seen and he was shocked by what he saw. Blackie felt a cold chill on the back of his neck and his Celtic intuition told him that she was in deadly earnest. He could not encourage the preposterous idea of her running off to Leeds, yet he must attempt to pacify her.

And so Blackie bit back the ‘no’ he had been about to utter, drew in a deep breath, smiled, and said with all the gallantry he could summon, ‘Faith, and to be sure ye could. But not now, Emma. Ye are but a little colleen. Ye can’t be going off to Leeds until ye are older, I am thinking. ’Tis a fine city, sure and it is, full of prospects, but awesome and dangerous, too, for a little snippet like ye.’

Emma appeared not to hear this. At least she ignored it. ‘Where would I work to make this fortune?’ she rushed on, undaunted. ‘What would I do?’

Blackie realized she was not going to be easily appeased. He pretended to consider the question seriously, for he was only humouring her, in spite of his initial response. She did not look as if she would make it to Fairley Hall, let alone Leeds, and had he not imagined that relentless expression on her face? Anything was possible on these ghostly moors, at this hour, in the depth of winter.

‘Well, let me be thinking this one out,’ he said cautiously. ‘Perhaps ye could work in one of the manufactories making the fine dresses or maybe in one of the elegant shops selling the finery to the ladies. Many things there are ye could do, but as I said afore, I must be thinking on it careful. That’s important, sure and it is. We must find ye the right occupation. That’s the secret of success, ye knows, Emma. Least, so I’ve heard tell.’

She nodded, realizing the truth of what he said, and debated whether to confide further in Blackie, but her canniness, that inbred wariness, made her hold her tongue. She decided she had said enough for the moment. But she did have one more question and it was of crucial importance to her. ‘If I comes ter Leeds one day, when I’m growed up like yer say I should be, will yer help ter show me the ropes like, Blackie?’ She was gazing up at him and he saw that her face was the face of a child again and he breathed a sigh of relief, although he was not certain why.

‘Faith and sure I will, Emma. It will be me pleasure. I live at Mrs Riley’s boardinghouse on the “ham and shank”, but ye can always find me at the Mucky Duck.’

‘What’s that then? The “ham and shank”?’ Her brows puckered in bewilderment.

He laughed, amused at her puzzlement. ‘What rhymes with “ham and shank”?’

‘Lots of things!’ she exclaimed pithily, and threw him a scathing look.

‘The Bank, that’s what. Ham and shank. The Bank. See? It rhymes. Rhyming slang we calls it in Leeds. ’Tis the railway bank though, not the riverbank, near the Leylands. But that ain’t such a good neighbourhood, full of roughs and toughs it is! Not the place for a colleen to be a-wandering in alone, I am thinking. So if ye wants to find me, just go to the Mucky Duck in York Road and ask for Rosie. She’s the barmaid and she’ll know where I am, if I ain’t in the pub. Ye see, I might be at the Golden Fleece in Briggate. Ye can be leaving a message with Rosie, to be sure ye can, and she’ll get it to me or me Uncle Pat the same day.’

‘Thank yer, Blackie, ever so much,’ said Emma, mentally repeating with the greatest of care the names he had reeled off, so that she would remember them. For she did intend to go to Leeds and make her fortune.

She fell silent. They walked along not speaking, both of them lost in their own thoughts, yet it was a harmonious silence, without unease or awkwardness. Strangers though they were, they had taken to each other and a kind of understanding had sprung up between them, brief as their acquaintance was.

Blackie looked about him, thinking how grand it was to be alive, to have a job of work to do, a few shillings warming his pocket, and most importantly, the prospect of lots more to come. Even the moors had a strange compelling beauty now that he could see them properly. The fog had lifted long before and the air was no longer damp and moisture-laden. It was a brisk day, with a light wind that imbued the naked trees, so rigid and lifeless at this season, with a new and graceful mobility as they waved in the breeze. And the sky was no longer the colour of dull lead. It leaked a hard metallic blue.

They had almost reached the end of the flat plateau of moorland, and Blackie was beginning to wonder when they would arrive at Fairley Hall, when Emma announced, ‘The Hall is yonder, Blackie,’ as if she had read his thoughts. She was pointing straight ahead.

His eyes followed the direction of her outstretched arm. He could see nothing but the empty moorland. ‘Where? I must be the blind one, Emma. I can’t see no spires and chimneys, like himself described to me last week.’

‘Yer will when we gets ter the top of the ridge over yonder,’ she asserted, ‘then it’s downhill all the way. In a couple of ticks we’ll be in the Baptist Field and that’s right next ter the Hall.’