The Miller's Daughter (25 page)

‘There’s some good bargains on a Saturday night. When the market traders start to pack up, rather than take stuff back home, ’specially perishables like vegetables and
chickens, the stallholders sell them off dirt cheap.’ Leonard had smiled and nodded and tapped the side of his nose with his finger in a gesture of having inside knowledge. He looked
incongruous in his smart city suit standing there in the middle of the one cluttered room, which, no matter how hard she tried, she could not keep tidy.

Emma, more tired than she could ever remember being in her life, had nodded listlessly. She’d be glad when this bairn was born. The pregnancy was draining her energy far more than had her
firstborn. And the child seemed anxious to be born for it kicked and stretched within her.

‘Have you asked around about other rooms, Leonard? I don’t want the baby born here with only that old beezum to help.’ She pointed downwards with her forefinger, indicating the
floor below their room where the slovenly Mrs Biggins lived. If she’d asked him once during the last few months, indeed ever since they had set foot in this place, she had asked him a dozen
times. Sometimes he got angry and told her to be thankful she had a roof over her head. ‘There’s folks out there,’ he had flung his arm wide vaguely in the direction of the
factories down hill, ‘getting put out of work, who’d give their right arm to have a room like this.’ And then the same old quarrel would erupt. ‘If you’d sell your
blasted mill . . .’

Stubbornly, Emma refused.

But today, with the promise of a pint at one of the pubs near the Cornhill where the market was, Leonard was in an expansive mood. He patted her shoulder and said, ‘Don’t worry.
I’ve got the matter in hand. Now are you ready, boy?’ Leonard ran his glance over his son and Emma watched as Charles’s eyes widened fearfully under the scrutiny. She could almost
feel the boy’s tension as he waited for the inevitable criticism. Emma kept silent, for she knew he wanted to go with his father. Charles was fascinated by the city streets, the hustle and
bustle and, because Emma would not let him go out on his own, his world was restricted to the confines of the school playground and the half mile walk home to their lodgings. The promise of an
evening wandering amongst the market stalls was a treat not to be missed.

But Leonard was smiling. ‘I’ll see if I can pick up some clothing for the lad, Emma. This jacket’s seen better days.’ He pointed to the frayed cuffs and her neat darning
around the patches on the elbows. ‘Can’t have a son of mine looking like a street urchin, can we, boy?’

‘No, Father,’ Charles said, smiling back a little uncertainly, but with a growing confidence. He pulled up his knee-length grey socks and rubbed the toe of each boot on the back of
his legs, then smoothed back his hair in an effort to be like his well-dressed father.

Emma, watching them together, hid her smile. The old Leonard Smith charm was being turned on his son for once, she mused. During the past few months her husband had grown a small, neat moustache
that made him look a little older, much more the part of a successful middle-class man-about-town, and even more dashing. And today he was wearing a new dark suit.

As she had listened to their footsteps going down the stairs, Emma sank into the chair by the fire, thankful to have a few moments respite.

She awoke with a start at the sound of knocking and now, as she struggled across the room to open the door, she felt a sudden stab of unease. It was almost dark; they were later than she had
thought. Oh, surely nothing had happened . . .

A strange man stood on the landing, a notebook and pencil in his hand, a leather strap slung across his shoulder which supported a deep leather bag resting against his hip. He was a small weasel
of a man, with thin, sharp features and a scraggy neck that stuck up out of a stiffly starched collar.

‘Yes?’ she said uncertainly.

‘Rent, madam,’ the man said through thin, almost nonexistent lips, without preamble or greeting.

‘Rent?’ she repeated, blinking stupidly.

‘Yes, madam. You’re already two months in arrears. There was no one at home the last twice I’ve called.’ The words were said with a hint of disbelief that was not lost on
Emma.

‘Well, you’re out of luck again I’m afraid,’ she said tartly. ‘My husband pays the rent and he’s out.’ She made to close the door, but found the man had
put his foot against the door jamb to prevent her doing so. Surprised she gaped at the booted foot for a moment and then raised her gaze to look into the man’s mean eyes.

‘Think I ain’t heard that one before?’ His thin lips stretched. ‘I want three months’ rent, Missis, and I ain’t budgin’ till I have the
money.’

‘Please yourself,’ Emma said and turned away from the door back towards the fire, leaving the man standing there. Unhurried and unconcerned she settled herself back in her chair, her
mouth twitching with amusement. She raised her voice. ‘There’s a draught. Either come in or go out, but shut the door.’

Hesitantly, he stepped into the room and closed the door. He stood beside it, shifting his weight uneasily from one foot to the other. Obviously, in his vast experience, he had not previously
encountered this sort of treatment. ‘Er, if you’d just give me the money, Missis, I’ll be on me way. I’ve other calls to make . . .’ His voice petered out.

‘I can’t give you what I haven’t got. If you want your rent money tonight, then you’ll have to wait until my husband comes home.’

‘Oh aye,’ the man said with dry sarcasm. ‘When the pubs shut, I suppose?’

Emma opened her mouth to say he shouldn’t be long, he has our six-year-old with him, but something about the man’s belligerent manner made her remain silent. She leant back against
the chair and gave an exaggerated sigh and pressed both her hands on to her bulging stomach. ‘I hope he’s not long myself. I’ve been getting these pains . . .’ She closed
her eyes and gave a low moan.

‘Pains,’ the man’s voice was a high-pitched squeak. She heard the door open and him say, ‘Well, I’d best be on me way. I’ll call again. Yes, I’ll call
again. Tomorrow – or – or the next day. Good day, missis.’

As the door closed behind him, Emma opened her eyes and looked into the firelight. Quietly she began to chuckle, then as the merriment bubbled up inside her, she clapped her hand over her mouth.
The rent man could still be outside, hovering on the landing. She didn’t want him to hear her laughing. But the more she tried to stifle her giggles the more insistent her mirth became until
she was lying back in the chair, tears of helpless laughter running down her cheeks.

It was the first time since leaving Marsh Thorpe that she had laughed like this and that was how her husband and son, coming back into the room in a flurry of excited chatter, found her. As she
told them of her run-in with the rent man, Leonard sat down in the chair opposite and stared at her in amazement. ‘Well, now Emma Smith, if that don’t beat all. You, of all people,
tricking that little ferret, Forbes. I never thought I’d see the day.’ There was a note of admiration in his tone that made Emma look up sharply, her laughter silenced.

‘What do you mean? Tricked him?’

Leonard’s shoulders lifted in a shrug. ‘Well, you know, give him the run-around.’

‘I did no such thing,’ Emma denied hotly. ‘I couldn’t give him what I haven’t got, could I? I told him that. But if I’d had the rent money here, I would have
given it to him.’

At once Leonard’s expression turned into a sneer and he rose to his feet. ‘Huh, I might have known it was too much to hope that you were learning a bit of sense.’

‘Leonard, what do you mean? And why are we two months’ rent in arrears? He said he hadn’t been paid the last twice he’s called.’

Her husband waved his hand at her dismissively. ‘Forget it, Emma. I’ll see to it. Now come and see what we’ve bought.’

There was a new jacket and short, boy’s trousers for Charles and two shirts.

‘Oh, Leonard, they’re almost new.’

‘There’s a good stall there on the Saturday. Secondhand stuff mostly, but it’s usually very good.’

There was a box of chocolates for her, wrapped with a blue ribbon. She reached out her hand to pick it up, torn between the pleasure his gifts gave and the nagging thought that they could not
afford such luxuries.

‘And I got you this,’ he said, pulling something wrapped in a piece of cloth from his pocket and beaming at her. He unfolded the cloth and there in his hands lay Charles’s
silver christening mug.

‘Thank you.’ She took the mug from him, far more thankful to have it safely back in her hands than for any other present he could have bought her.

As she went to the shelf in the corner of the room and reached up to put it in pride of place, Emma felt the first stab of pain low in her groin.

‘I won’t have that old beezum near me,’ Emma shouted, writhing on the bed, alternately sweating and shivering as the spasms of pain gripped with increasing
frequency. ‘Get a doctor – a midwife – anyone, but not
her
!’

‘Oh, I see, not good enough for you, aren’t I?’ Mrs Biggins, standing at the end of the bed, her flabby arms folded beneath her bosom across which was stretched a dirty,
grey-white blouse, gave a sniff and turned away.

‘No.’ Leonard’s hand shot out and gripped the woman’s arm. ‘No, please stay. She’s – she’s delirious.’ He gave an exaggerated, hearty laugh.
‘She must think you’re my mother. Yes, that’s it. They never did get on. Can’t stand the sight of each other, in fact,’ he added, warming to his theme.

‘That’s not true,’ Emma tried to whisper, but her words were lost in the groan that began low in her stomach and forced its way up and into her throat. It was, in fact, a lie.
Emma wished with all her heart that it
was
Bridget standing at the end of the bed at this moment.

She gave another moan and the pain caused her to bring her knees up, to grip her hands beneath them and bend forward over her bulging stomach. Through the haze of her pain she saw Leonard
staring down at her and heard the woman say, ‘Good God, she’s getting ready to push. Look lively, man. Get down to yon kitchen and get some water boiling. Get my old man to help ye. He
knows what to do. I’ve ’ad five o’ me own and he delivered two of ’em when we couldn’t afford a midwife. Go
on
.’

Roughly, she pushed Leonard towards the door and then gripped the bedclothes and flung them off. ‘Now then, let’s be ’aving a look at yer.’

Not one of them – not Emma, lost in the depths of her pain, nor the bewildered man, nor the blowsy, unkempt woman – noticed the young boy, cowering, terrified in the corner of the
hot, stuffy room.

By the time Emma was well enough to write and tell her friend Sarah the good news, the child’s name had become Billy.

Tell William when next you see him that I’ve named the baby after him.
She smiled as she wrote, her pen hovering over the page as she almost added, and don’t forget to tell
the bees. But the words remained unwritten. Sarah needed no reminding. Emma’s gaze went to the window and beyond as she thought about her home.

The bees in the orchard would be the first to know.

Sarah replied by return.

A week after the birth, a knock came on the door.

‘Oh no,’ Emma groaned, remembering it was the day the rent man was due again and Leonard was once more, conveniently for him, not at home. She sighed and called, ‘Come
in.’

She was still in the huge bed in the corner although she now got up each day for a few hours, against the advice of the ‘midwife’. Mrs Biggins, though without improvement in her
appearance and slovenly ways, had risen in Emma’s estimation. Emma was always ready to give credit where it was due, and whilst she bemoaned the fact that it could not have been Sarah once
more with her at her confinement, she had to admit that without the ministrations of her neighbour, she would have been in great difficulty. And even afterwards, she was thankful when the woman
levered her huge, bloated frame up the flight of stairs each day to help. Leonard disappeared every morning as soon as he could and even young Charles displayed a sudden keenness for school.

The door opened and Emma gave a delighted squeal and flung her arms wide in welcome. ‘William!’

Grinning, he approached the bed, bent down and submitted himself to a rapturous hug.

‘Oh, how lovely to see you. Sit down,’ she patted the covers beside her. ‘Tell me all the news. How’s everything at home? How’s – ?’ she hesitated a
fraction and then finished, ‘everyone?’

He sat beside her, his eyes intent upon her face. ‘How are you?’ he said soberly. ‘You look pale, Em.’

She smiled. ‘Well, it is only a week since Billy was born.’ She saw his glance take in the squalid room and said a little too brightly to deceive William, ‘We’re hoping
to move out of here soon. These rooms were what Leonard had when he was on his own. They’re not suitable for a family. They were always only temporary . . .’ Her voice faded away. She
could see that William did not believe her.

Emma lay back against the pillows and found herself confiding in her childhood friend. She hadn’t meant to, but in the overwhelming joy of seeing someone from home, and especially as that
someone was William, for a moment she was vulnerable. ‘I’ve had a difficult time with this one. The labour lasted twelve hours. It’ll be different when I get my strength
back.’

‘Is there anything I can do to help?’ William asked, a worried frown creasing his forehead, his voice deep with anxiety. Suddenly, he stood up and turned away from her. ‘This
is no place for a newhorn baby or for you,’ he burst out angrily.

She watched him, her violet eyes dark and troubled. Tears welled up and she brushed them aside impatiently, but he caught sight of them as he turned to look at her again. ‘Oh Em,
don’t. I’m sorry.’ He sat beside her again and caught hold of her hands.