Emma (33 page)

‘
Daring raid liberates British prisoners
…’ The newsboy’s strident tones caught my attention and I went to buy a paper. ‘That’s right, love, read all about it … rescued from the
Altmark
… British prisoners in daring escape.’

I smiled and walked on, scanning the headlines in the paper. It was February 1940 and at last there was some good news. Something to cheer us up after weeks of gloom in the papers. Though London itself was still far from gloomy despite the official black-out, and I had just come from a lunch-time chamber concert. They were drawing crowds. People were determined to make the best of things, to enjoy themselves where they could, and most of the theatres were opening up again after closing down when the lights first went out all over the city.

‘Watch out, sweetheart!’

‘Oh, I’m so sorry!’

Absorbed in my paper, I had walked straight into a man. He caught my arm, steadying me, a huge grin on his face. I noticed that he had very dark, almost black hair, and that his eyes were a dark, bitter chocolate brown. He was also very good looking!

‘If you’re not careful, you’ll hurt yourself,’ he said, seeming concerned for my welfare.

‘I’m fine – but did I hurt you?’

‘Not so as you’d notice. I guess I’m pretty tough.’

His smile was infectious, making me respond with one of my own. ‘Perhaps that’s as well, seeing as I must have trodden on your foot. It was clumsy of me. I wasn’t looking where I was going, because I was just so pleased to read about those prisoners being rescued … it’s marvellous news, isn’t it?’

He seemed to know what I meant, nodding agreement. ‘Yes. It’s always good when something like that happens.’

‘Especially at the moment.’

‘Yes.’ He looked serious now. ‘It can’t be easy for you British at the moment, and I’m afraid it’s going to get a hell of a lot rougher before this is all over.’

‘Yes, I’m sure you’re right …’ I smiled at him again. ‘Forgive me, but I must go. I have to get back to work.’

‘I guess so …’

‘Bye then.’

He caught my arm as I tried to pass him. ‘I’m Jack Harvey. American, single, free, here on business, and feeling lonely. You wouldn’t have time for a drink one night? Maybe tonight even? I promise I don’t bite …’

‘I’m sorry,’ I said, shaking my head at him but smiling because he was looking so eager. ‘I’m engaged to someone, a man I love. It was nice meeting you, Mr Harvey – but I must go.’

‘OK. It was worth a try.’

He let me go with a rueful grin. I walked on, smiling to myself. It wasn’t the first time I’d been asked out by a stranger. There were a lot of young men at a loose end in London at the moment. Young servicemen on leave from their units. Many of them were alone in a strange city and feeling a bit lost … or frightened. Mr Harvey wasn’t one of them, of course. His country wasn’t officially at war, though Sol believed the Americans were helping us more behind the scenes than anyone yet knew.

Thinking of Sol made me remember I was going to be late for work, and I began to run. That afternoon was an important one for me and I didn’t want to start out on the wrong foot.

I was in the workshop when the telephone rang that afternoon, but didn’t take much notice. This was the first time Sol had trusted me with the good cloth, and I wanted to get it exactly right.

I was concentrating very hard as I cut carefully round the edge of the dress pattern. We couldn’t afford to waste cloth, even though clothes rationing had not yet begun. Sol said the Government was only waiting for the right moment before they imposed it. Besides, it was a matter of pride that I should be able to cut well. The cutting was the most important part of tailoring. Sol had impressed that on me from the very beginning.

‘A good cutter is worth his weight in gold,’ Sol had told me that first morning. ‘Never forget it, Emma. In this trade you can cut corners in a score of ways, but never economise on your skilled labour. They
are
your business.’

Sol should know. He had started out as a cutter himself, the son of impoverished immigrants, and now he was an extremely wealthy man – also a very wise and a very kind man.

I glanced behind me. Mr Jackson, Sol’s top cutter, was watching me from his corner of the workshop, though trying not to let me see it. He gave me an encouraging smile, but let me get on with it. Sol had given strict instructions that I was to be given no help, and I wasn’t going to ask.

‘Emma!’ One of the girls from the showroom came to fetch me. ‘Telephone – for you!’

My heart stopped then raced on wildly. It wasn’t very often that anyone telephoned me at work, and my mind was starting to invent worrying images. Had something happened to my son, to my mother … or Jon?

‘Who is it?’ I asked when I reached the office and saw the receiver lying by the side of the phone. The girl shrugged, and my heart jerked with fright as I put the receiver to my ear. ‘Yes … Emma Robinson here. Who is it please?’

‘It’s me, Emma …’ Relief flooded through me as I heard Jonathan’s voice. ‘Didn’t that girl tell you?’

‘No … just that I was wanted on the phone.’

‘No wonder you sounded breathless. It’s good news, Emma. I’m getting a two week leave. I’ll be home on Sunday. We can arrange the wedding at last …’

‘Oh, Jon,’ I said, a catch in my throat. ‘That’s wonderful … really good news. I’m so pleased.’

‘I can’t wait to see you, to be with you, my darling.’

‘Me too …’ I laughed with relief. ‘Have you told your mother yet? She will want to get started with all the arrangements.’

‘I’ll ring her now, but I wanted to tell you first, Emma.’

‘I’m so glad you did.’

‘Look, there’s someone waiting to use the phone. I’d better go. I’ll see you on Sunday.’

‘Yes. I’ll be watching for you. Take care, Jon.’

‘I love you …’

‘I love you, too …’

I was smiling as I left the office. Sol had been showing a regular customer the new stock when I answered the telephone call, but he came to me now, brows raised.

‘Good news, Emma?’

‘The best. Jon is coming home for a two week leave on Sunday. It means we can arrange the wedding at last.’

‘That is good news,’ Sol said, his thoughtful, grey eyes narrowing as he looked at me. ‘Got that dress cut yet?’

‘No, not quite,’ I replied. ‘You can come through and look in another five minutes.’

I went back to my task, determined that I was going to make this dress myself without anyone’s advice or help: it had to be good enough to go out on the rails with the others, or I would have failed the test. Only when Sol declared himself satisfied that I understood the basics of the trade, could I move on to the showroom, which was out front of the cramped workshop.

I had been surprised when I saw the workshop the morning I started to work for Solomon Gould. Somehow I had expected it to be larger because of all the racks of dresses in the showroom, but I now knew that as soon as something was finished a girl took it out to the front. Nothing was allowed to linger in this place!

The working conditions for the two cutters and three tailors had seemed cramped and airless in the beginning, but I had soon become used to it, and now, when I visited the main factory with Sol, I found it noisy and somehow impersonal.

Sol’s new factory – which he had set up just before the start of the war to manufacture uniforms for the Armed Forces – was outside of London.

‘Safe from the bombs,’ Sol had told me when we were discussing our joint venture. ‘The East End will catch it once they start. And the dock area. We don’t want all our money to go up in smoke. Some of the women grumbled about the move. They don’t like living in the country, and I can’t blame them, but once the Government started to evacuate the children … well, they saw the advantages.’

‘You mean like eggs?’ I’d asked with a smile. Fresh produce was becoming harder to find in London.

For the first few weeks after war was declared, I had wondered if it would be better to send my own son out of town for his own sake. My mother had offered to have James with her, but I was reluctant to be parted from him, and he was so happy at home with Margaret. When the expected bombs had failed to arrive, I was glad I hadn’t lost my nerve and sent James away.

It was some months now since I’d moved in with the Goulds. They had a Georgian terraced house in a pleasant garden square. Although narrow, the house was built on four separate floors. Sol had had the attics converted into a nursery and playroom for James.

‘Plenty of room for you and the boy, Emma,’ Sol had said to me over and over again. ‘There’s no need for you to move out when you and Jon marry. You know we love having you with us. And Margaret is so fond of James …’

It was a convenient arrangement. I could take the underground or a tram to the Portobello Road on the days when Sol didn’t drive me to the workshop. Despite being Sol’s partner in the new factory, I preferred to make my own way to work, and I had made it clear to Sol from the start that I wanted to be treated like any other worker during business hours.

Sol had been scrupulous about keeping to our agreement. He was teaching me the trade, and if I made a mistake I was put right very firmly – which was exactly the way I wanted it. However, on the days when Sol drove down to the new factory, he treated me and James as if we were his daughter and grandson.

He and Margaret would have loved children of their own, but unfortunately Margaret hadn’t been able to have a child. She was very close to being an invalid, though she refused to give into her illness and tried very hard to hide her suffering from us all. I had noticed it was getting more difficult for her to walk up and down stairs, but when I’d suggested she see her doctor, she had sworn me to secrecy. Sol must not know she was feeling worse. He had enough problems with the war restrictions and red tape.

Because of Margaret and Sol’s kindness, I wanted to be an asset to the business. I was in the fortunate position of not having to work unless I chose, because I had some money of my own. However, I wanted to work. I had asked Sol to teach me the trade, and I wanted to learn and understand it all properly.

My pattern was cut. I glanced towards the showroom door just as it opened and Sol came in. He was frowning as he approached the table where I was working, and I felt a shiver of apprehension trickle down my spine. If I hadn’t done my work properly, it would be as big a disappointment to Sol as it would to me.

He took his time looking at what I’d done, checking the run of the cloth and whether I’d made the best use I could of the length I’d chosen to cut, then he looked at me. He was trying very hard not to grin, and I knew he was pleased.

‘Not bad,’ he murmured. ‘Not bad for an apprentice …’

‘Oh, Sol!’ I cried impatiently. ‘Is it good enough? Will you put it on the rails with the others?’

‘We’ll see when you’ve finished it,’ he said, nodding at me. ‘I was thinking of taking a run up to the factory tomorrow, Emma. If you want to come with me, you’d best get on. I haven’t got time to stand about all day if you have.’

If he hadn’t been satisfied with the cut he would have said as much. He was just teasing me as he so often did these days. Sol was only in his early forties, twenty years or so older than me, but I loved him as dearly as if he were my father. He had shown me more love than my own father ever had, and I was so grateful.

‘Of course I want to come,’ I said. ‘Go and serve some customers, Sol, and let me get on with my work.’

Our factory was in Chatteris, a small market town in Cambridgeshire. Sol had chosen to set up there, because I’d mentioned the availability of suitable premises – or that was his excuse. I suspected a part of it was because it was close to my home.

I had lived in March for most of my life. March itself was a railway town with one of the largest marshalling yards in Europe, and Sol thought it might be vulnerable to attack from the air because of all the trains. Chatteris was tucked away in the heart of the fenland, and he had hoped to avoid some of the risk when the bombing finally started … but the Air Ministry had opened an airfield at a village just down the road, so the factory was now between two likely targets.

Not that we had seen any sign of the air raids starting yet. After all the talk and preparation it almost seemed as if it was a phoney war, but Sol told me not to become too complacent.

‘Hitler has been busy elsewhere,’ he warned, ‘but he hasn’t forgotten us, Emma. It’s going to be bad when it starts. When it does, you ought to think of going somewhere safer.’

I hadn’t argued with Sol, but I had no intention of leaving London. Coming here in the first place had been a big step for me, but I had never regretted it despite sometimes missing my mother. She still worried about me and wrote often, giving me all the local news and asking me when Jon and I were going to get married.

We had planned to marry sooner than this, but Jon’s training as an Airforce navigator had been intensive, and though he’d had one or two short spells of leave, he hadn’t been able to fit in the wedding. At least, not the kind of wedding Mrs Reece wanted.

It was of course the second time for me. My first unhappy marriage was behind me now, and the grief of losing my beloved
Gran
was becoming easier to bear – except when I remembered how she had died, and then sometimes I woke from a bad dream with tears on my cheeks.

My husband – Richard Gillows – had murdered Gran. Of that there was not the slightest shadow of a doubt, though his other wicked deeds could not be proved. He had met a violent and sudden death by running in front of a fast train, and I believed that act had been quite deliberate. Richard had known it was only a matter of time before he was caught and tried for Mother Jacob’s murder.

After his death and my decision to live in London, I had decided to use my maiden name. I preferred to be called Emma Robinson rather than Mrs Gillows, and not just because my husband’s name had been in all the papers at the time when the police were hunting for him.

James was not my husband’s child. He was the son of a man called Paul Greenslade. Paul was Jon’s cousin, and we had first met through him. Jon had helped me after I became pregnant and had no one else to turn to. Although my son had been registered as my husband’s child at birth, I had since had his name changed to Reece by a legal deed. Jon had arranged that for me so that James would not grow up to believe himself the son of a murderer.