A Woman of Substance (17 page)

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 pleateau 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.’

Emma and Blackie were now standing on top of the ridge she had indicated. Behind them, sweeping into the cloudless sky, were the high fells where the last of the snow shimmered here and there like uneven swatches of white satin rippling in the watery sunlight. Below them was a small valley, typical of the West Riding, cradled in the arms of the encircling moors that extended to the rim of the horizon.

And in this dun-coloured valley, all dim greys, dusty char
coals, and earthy browns, stood Fairley Hall. Only the tops of the spires and the chimneys were visible to the eye from where they were standing, for the house itself was obscured by a copse of trees. Unlike the stunted trees that intermittently broke the barrenness of the moors, these trees were tall and stately oaks, their widely splayed branches intertwining to form an intricate pattern. Plumes of smoke from the chimneys twisted upward behind the trees, filling the chill blue sky with wispy grey question marks. Suddenly, a flock of rooks fluttered out of the copse, winding up and out in a long wavy line like a coil of thick black rope flung carelessly into the air. Otherwise there was no sign of life in this neat little valley which slumbered undisturbed at this early hour, serene and peaceful in the infinite silence.

Surprisingly, the ridge on which Emma and Blackie stood did not drop down precipitously as Blackie had anticipated, but fell away into a short gentle slope that rolled towards the edge of a small field. Drystone walls, built long ago by the crofters, surrounded this field and others in the distance, cutting out a patchwork design on the floor of the valley, a design that to Blackie seemed extraordinarily orderly and tidy, juxtaposed as it was against the wild and sprawling moors. It looked as though a giant hand had neatly carved up the land most precisely and then enclosed each portion with the old and rugged walls.

Emma ran ahead, calling to Blackie as she did, ‘Come on then, I’ll race yer ter the gate!’ She flew off down the slope at such a speed he was momentarily taken aback, both by her incredible swiftness and her unexpected burst of energy. She was wiry, this one. Gripping the sack tightly in one hand, Blackie leaped after her, at first at a goodly pace. With his great physical strength and long legs he could have outstripped her easily, but when he had almost caught up with her he fell back, slackening his speed, so that she could win her race.

Emma stood triumphantly by the gate. ‘Yer’ll have ter look more sharpish and get a move on if yer wants ter beat
me
,’ she proclaimed with a small swagger. ‘I’m a good runner, yer knows,’ she added, panting.

Blackie grinned at this tiny display of vanity and then adopted
an admiring attitude. ‘Indeed, so I can see, mavourneen! Ye are as fast as a greyhound at the dog tracks, I am thinking. I’d put me money on ye any day, sure and I would.’

Emma bestowed a gratified smile on him and a gleam of satisfaction flickered across her face briefly. Then she turned quickly, unlatched the gate, pushed it slightly, and jumped on to the first rung, clinging to it fiercely as the gate swung forward into the field, carrying her with it. Glancing back at Blackie over her shoulder, she called, ‘I always have a swing on this gate here, even though I’m not supposed ter.’ When the gate groaned to a quivering standstill she stepped off briskly and pulled it back, apparently intending to repeat the operation, her face slightly flushed, her eyes merry.

Blackie threw down his sack. ‘Here let me give ye a push, Emma.’

Nodding excitedly, she climbed on to the first rung again and clutched the gate tightly with her small chapped hands, as Blackie sent it flying into the field much faster than before. Her worn coat billowed out behind her and laughter washed over her face. Blackie watched her, enjoying her delight in this simple pleasure. Why, she’s only a bairn at that, he thought, a rush of warmth filling his throat. How could I have imagined otherwise? Sure and it’s stupid that I am.

Emma dropped off the gate and beckoned to him. ‘Come on! Let’s be going. I’m ever so late and I’ll be copping it from Mrs Turner.’

Blackie picked up his sack and joined her. He put his arm around her in a brotherly fashion and fell into step with her as they proceeded to the bottom of the field. ‘I have to be confessing to ye that I’m mighty curious about the folk at Fairley Hall. What are they like, mavourneen?’

There was a tiny silence.

‘Yer’ll see in a minute.’ Emma smiled oddly. ‘We’re almost there now.’ Freeing herself from him, she ran ahead without another word.

Blackie looked after her, frowning, puzzled by that curious smile. She was such a small figure on the path in front of him, skipping along almost with a carefree air. He had to admit she baffled him. One minute she was a child, her face soft and laugh
ing; the next she seemed like an old woman, her face cast in bronze. Yet they were all queer, these Yorkshire folk, with their flat harsh accents, their self-reliant characters, their dour and opinionated natures, their rabid suspicion of strangers, their shrewdness and lightning perception of character. And their veneration of money. Still, he had discovered they could be generous-spirited and hospitable, and they had a sense of humour, even if it was somewhat blunt and pithy at times. Indeed, they were funny folk, and perhaps the very peculiarities he had discerned in Emma were simply vestiges of these Yorkshire traits. Yes, that must be it, he thought, and he quickened his steps to catch up with her.

Emma was waiting for him at the copse of trees which skirted the end of the field. ‘There’s the Hall, Blackie,’ she said in a voice totally devoid of emotion.

Blackie stopped dead in his tracks and let out a long low whistle in stunned astonishment. Fairley Hall was in their direct line of vision and it bore no resemblance to the images he had conjured up in his head after his recent talk with Squire Fairley in Leeds.

‘Mary, Mother of Jesus!’ he cried, his eyes opening wide in disbelief. ‘It’s not possible, mavourneen. Nobody could have built a house like that!’ He closed his eyes convulsively and when he opened them again he discovered he was not only disappointed in what he saw, but utterly appalled as well.

‘The Hall’s the grandest house for miles around. Nowt as big as it by here,’ Emma pointed out in the same toneless voice. ‘Me dad calls it Fairley’s Folly.’ He did not notice the faint bitter smile on her lips.

‘I can see why,’ Blackie murmured, thinking that it was the most grotesque house he had ever seen. As he stared at it, his jaw slack and his mouth drooping open, he recognized with dismay that it had no redeeming features at all. For Blackie O’Neill had an unusually accurate eye for perspective and line and, in fact, his one dream in life had been to study architecture. This had not been possible, but encouraged by his parish priest, Father O’Donovan, when a boy, he had taught himself as much as he could from a few books, and because of his desire to learn and his very natural talent, he had become ex
ceedingly knowledgeable about designs and construction.

Now he scanned the house with keen and critical eyes. The closer they drew to it, the more Blackie perceived what a monstrosity it was. It appeared to crouch like an implacable monster amidst carefully planned yet oddly incongruous gardens, its blackened stone walls grim and unwelcoming. Gothic-like spires leapt up from the four corners of the central building, which was square and dominating and was crowned with a bizarre cupola. It struck him that this central building was the oldest part, probably dating back to the late 1790s, and if it had been left alone it would have had a semblance of dignity, perhaps even a touch of grandeur. But other wings had obviously been added over the years, seemingly with little thought, and they sprouted off on both sides without regard to form or design. He could now see that they were bastardized interpretations of Regency and Victorian styles, and all of them mingled together to create a chaotic effect.

In essence, Fairley Hall was a hodgepodge of diverse periods that competed with each other to create a façade that was without proportion, symmetry, or beauty. The house was large, solid, and rich, a veritable mansion, in fact, but its architectural inconsistencies made it hideous. Blackie sighed. He loved simplicity and he thought wistfully of the lovely old Georgian houses in Ireland, with their fluid lines and classical proportions that gave them such perfect balance. He had not expected to find such a house on these rough Yorkshire moors, but not unaware of the standing and importance of the Fairley family, and their great wealth, he had anticipated a structure that had more taste and refinement than this.

They had almost reached the house when Emma cut into his thoughts as she said, ‘What do yer think ter it then?’ She looked up at him curiously, tugging at his arm.

‘Not much! ’Tis a Folly to be sure, just as ye dad says. It may be the grandest house in these parts, but it ain’t to the tastes of me.’

‘Won’t yer have a house like the Hall then, when yer gets ter be this toff, this millionaire yer said yer’d be one day?’ she probed, scrutinizing him shrewdly. ‘I thought
all
millionaires lived in grand houses like Fairley.’

‘True! True!’ he said quickly. ‘They do live in grand houses, but not always ones as ugly as Fairley Hall, Emma. I would never want such a house for meself. It offends me eyes, sure and it does, for it has no beauty or harmony or style.’ Blackie glanced ahead and grimaced at the thought of occupying such a grotesque mausoleum.

That bitter smile played around Emma’s mouth again and there was a tiny gleam of malicious satisfaction in her eyes. Although she lacked exposure to the world beyond the moors, and so had no basis for comparison, she had always instinctively known that the Hall was an eyesore without grace or beauty. Her dad and the villagers might sarcastically call it Fairley’s Folly, but, none the less, they were still impressed. She laughed to herself, a little spitefully. Blackie had just confirmed her own opinions of Fairley Hall and this pleased her.

Now she turned to Blackie, who had risen even more in her esteem, and said inquisitively, ‘What kind of a house will yer live in then, when yer gets ter be this rich millionaire?’

The gloomy expression on his face lifted and was instantly replaced with a throbbing vibrancy. His black eyes shone as he exclaimed, ‘It will be in the Georgian style, built of pure white stone, with a handsome portico and great soaring columns and wide front steps. There will be many tall shining windows, looking out on to fine green lawns and gardens. It will have lots of spacious rooms, with lofty ceilings, and they will all be full of light and airiness. The floors will be made of polished oak and the fireplaces will all be in the Robert Adam style. In the entrance hall, which will be huge, I am going to have a floor made of white marble and a great curving staircase will lead to the upper floors. In every room I will use pastel colours, the light blues and pale greens that are soft and restful to the eyes, and I intend to purchase excellent furniture for all of these rooms. Yes, indeed! I shall select the best styles of Sheraton and Hepplewhite and maybe a little Chippendale. Paintings, too, I shall have, and many other fine and beautiful things. Ah, mavourneen, it will be a house to take ye breath away, faith and it will. I promise ye that. I aim to build it meself to me own design, sure and I do!’

‘Build it yerself, ter yer own design,’ she repeated in a hushed
tone, her face full of wonder. ‘Do yer know how ter design houses then, Blackie?’

‘Aye, to be sure I do,’ he responded proudly. ‘I go to the night school in Leeds to be learning draftsmanship, and that’s the next best thing to architecture. Ye’ll see, Emma, I’ll build that house one day and ye’ll come and visit me when ye are a grand lady.’

Emma looked at Blackie in awe. ‘Can anybody go ter this night school ter learn things?’ she asked, thinking of her brother Frank.

Blackie looked down at her expectant face, so filled with hope, and told her confidently, ‘Sure and they can. At the night school they teach ye everything ye might want to be learning.’

His answer delighted Emma and she stored the information at the back of her mind to tell Frank later, and asked, with her usual avid curiosity, ‘Who’s this Robert Adam then, and them others yer mentioned? Yer knows, Sheraton and Hepplewhite and Chippendale?’

Blackie’s face glowed, for they were embarking on a subject close to his heart. ‘Robert Adam was the great architect of the eighteenth century, Emma. He built many grand and beautiful houses for the gentry that are wondrous to behold. Ah, but Adam was more than that, I am thinking, for he furnished them, too, with style and taste. Nobody has ever bettered him, mavourneen. The others I spoke about,’ he went on enthusiastically, ‘were the three greatest furniture makers of the Georgian period, sure and they were. Master craftsmen who made the furniture for the Quality folk.’

He grinned and winked at her. ‘Ye see, I aim to have nothing but the best when I’m a rich boyo. For I often says to meself, “What’s the point of having money, Blackie O’Neill, if ye don’t get the pleasure from it?” So I aim to be spending it. That’s what it’s for, I am thinking. Are ye not after agreeing with me?’

Emma regarded him soberly. Mostly when she thought of money it was in terms of the necessities of life. Blackie had presented new possibilities to her. ‘Aye, I suppose so,’ she said cautiously. ‘As long as yer’ve got enough money ter spare, ter buy all them fine things.’

He roared with laughter. So much so that tears of merriment squeezed out of the corners of his eyes. ‘Ye are a canny Yorkshire colleen, I can see that,’ he said through his laughter. ‘But what’s
enough
, Emma? I’ve heard tell of some men who never have enough money to satisfy them.’

Like Squire Fairley, she thought sourly, but said, ‘And where will yer build yer beautiful house, Blackie? Will it be in Leeds then?’

He wiped his eyes on the back of his sleeve, his merriment subsiding, and shook his head. ‘No, I don’t think it will. I am considering building it in Harrogate, where all the toffs live,’ he said importantly. ‘Aye, that will be the place, I am thinking,’ he continued, the certainty in his voice more pronounced. ‘’Tis a fine town. A spa. Just the place for a spalpeen like me. Have ye heard of it, Emma?’