The Miller's Daughter (40 page)

‘But what if . . .?’

‘Wait and see, Emma,’ William said firmly. ‘Just wait and see.’

She knew he was right, but it didn’t make it any easier, the ‘waiting to see’, as he put it. Worry kept her awake at night, staring into the darkness seeing all that they had
built up in the past seventeen years crumbling before her eyes. They had worked hard, the two of them, with the ever faithful Sarah and Mr Rabinski – for some reason they could never come to
call him Ezra – alongside them. The mill and the bakery had prospered in a modest way.

Now, Mr Rabinski was too old and frail to work the long hours in the bakehouse and Emma and William employed a young lad from the village to do most of the heavy work, though still under the
direction of the old master baker. The shop itself had changed too. Although they still sold their own bread, it had become something of a general store now and for the past five years had also
been the village post office. The work of the mill was changing. They ground a small quantity of wheat for their own bakehouse, but the bulk of their work now was producing animal feedstuffs. But
at least they had enough work coming in to keep the sails turning.

Jamie’s work too had diminished and changed over the years with little for the smithy and even less for the wheelwright side of the business. Now he fashioned fancy wrought iron gates and
fences.

‘What would our father have said?’ Jamie would moan. ‘All the old crafts are dying out, all the old ways.’

‘Aye, well,’ William would say, ‘it’s what they call progress.’

And Jamie would give a disgruntled, ‘Huh. That’s what you call it, is it? But you’re all right, aren’t you?’ he’d say nodding towards the shop. ‘Little
gold mine you’ve got there with all the passing trade you’re picking up.’ And he would gesture towards the road where traffic now buzzed through the village on its way to the
coast.

‘You have to move with the times,’ William would answer and then he would bite back the next few words that always sprang to his mind, ‘and not stay buried in the
past.’

Poor Jamie. They felt sorry for the embittered man, now in his mid-sixties, who had spent his life working so hard and yet seemed to have nothing to show for all his labour.

‘He’d have been so different if he’d married you,’ William would say softly, tracing his finger round the line of her face. ‘But what would I have done then if
I’d had to spend my life as your brother-in-law?’

A lot of things would have been different, Emma thought wryly, if I’d married Jamie Metcalfe. Though she no longer regretted the fact that she had not, she could not prevent the thought
from slipping into her mind that if she had spent her life as Jamie’s wife, she would not at this moment be worrying herself sick over a boy called Micky Smith.

‘Mum, you didn’t really mean what you said, did you?’

Pretending ignorance, Emma said, ‘What about, love?’ But her heart was pounding inside her breast. She knew only too well what Lottie meant.

‘About me and – boyfriends?’ The girl gave a nervous laugh and touched her hair in an affected gesture that was totally unlike her. ‘I mean, it’s not that I want to
get serious with anyone. But, well . . .’ The words came out in a rush. ‘All our class are going to a dance in the Castle Gardens in Calceworth. You know, that place on the seafront?
And, well, this lad’s asked me to go with him.’

Emma swallowed and tried to keep her voice steady, ‘And which lad might that be?’

‘Micky. Micky Smith.’

Emma let out the breath she had been holding, wishing vehemently that William was here with her. He would handle it so much better than she could. But William had taken Mr Rabinski to Lincoln on
a business matter. The old man was too frail to go alone and William would have to spend the whole day with him. But Emma seemed to hear her husband’s gentle voice inside her head, ‘Let
it take its course, Em.’

With a valiant effort, Emma plastered a smile on her face and turned to face her daughter. ‘Of course you can go to the dance, love. But your dad will want to fetch you home?’

‘Oh, there’s a bus being organized to drop all of us off at our doors. Honestly, Mum, it’s being done properly. And besides, Micky will see me home safely.’

That is exactly what I’m afraid of, Emma thought, but she managed to hold back the words and say instead, ‘We’ll see what your dad says.’

‘Mum, this is Micky.’

Emma turned round slowly, knowing what she was going to see even before she found herself looking directly into a pair of blue-grey eyes that made time take a tilt.

He was tall for his age, taller than Leonard had been. Micky had the same eyes, the same dark hair and the same engaging smile. Completely unaware of the tumult of emotions the sight of him was
causing her, the boy was holding out his hand towards her and saying politely, ‘Good evening, Mrs Metcalfe. I hope we’re not late. The dance went on a bit.’

‘No, no, it’s all right,’ Emma heard herself saying mechanically and adding lamely, ‘as long as we know where she is.’

She saw the two youngsters exchange a glance and could almost read their thoughts. Parents!

Oh, yes, m’lad, Emma was thinking. Parents, it is indeed, but not in the way you’re thinking.

With relief she heard the back door open and William, returning from locking up outside for the night, came into the kitchen. His glance went immediately from his daughter to the boy and then
his gaze swivelled to meet Emma’s. ‘Well, now,’ he said, rubbing his hands together. ‘Come along in and have a drink before you go, lad. Far, is it?’

‘No, sir.’ The boy was all courteousness. Too courteous, Emma thought suspiciously. ‘Only about three miles and it’s a fine night.’

Lottie was smiling up at him, her blue eyes shining. ‘I told him to stay on the bus, but he would insist on getting off and seeing me to the door.’ Emma noticed that the girl’s
hand fluttered out and touched his, the lightest, feather touch. Micky turned swiftly and gave Lottie a broad wink.

‘Oh!’ Emma’s hand flew to her mouth and the tiny cry escaped her lips before she could prevent it. A hot sweat spread through her and she closed her eyes. Forty years ago
Leonard had stood in this very room and winked at her, a naive, inexperienced nineteen-year-old. And now, if what she believed was really true, Leonard’s son was standing almost on the same
spot and flirting with her daughter in the same way.

‘Mum? What is it? Are you all right?’ As if from a great distance she heard Lottie’s voice. ‘You’ve gone ever so white. Come on, sit down.’

Emma opened her eyes and took a deep breath. ‘I’m fine, love. A bit tired, that’s all.’

‘I’d better go,’ Micky began, but Emma waved his protestations aside. ‘No, no, really. Go upstairs with Mr Metcalfe and we’ll bring some coffee up.’

As William led the young man upstairs to the sitting room above the shop, Lottie whispered, ‘Well? What do you think? He
is
a dish, isn’t he?’

‘Yes, oh yes, he’s a dish all right,’ Emma replied, finding it difficult to keep the resentment from her tone.

‘What is it, Mum?’ The girl’s voice trembled. ‘Don’t you like him?’

There was a moment’s pause and then Emma shook herself and forced a smile on to her mouth. She was being so unfair to Lottie, who was completely ignorant about who the boy might be. It
wasn’t the girl’s fault, but Emma sighed inwardly, things would have to be stopped before they went too far.

‘It’s not that, darling. Don’t worry. He seems a very nice boy.’ Emma avoided meeting her daughter’s shrewd gaze. ‘Come on, butter some plum bread. Boys of
his age are always hungry, I know.’

Sitting slightly apart from the other three, watching and listening to them talking, Emma could not help feeling how nice it was to have a young man in the house again. She had missed her boys
more than she had realized, and she could almost imagine it was Charles or even young Billy sitting there laughing and teasing Lottie. But Charles was dead and Billy, settled in Australia, had not
been home for years. Lottie really did not know her half-brother at all.

The cup trembled in her hand and rattled in the saucer as, with a sudden jolt, Emma realized that if the boy sitting with such ease in her front room was indeed Leonard’s son, then,
although he was no blood relative of Lottie’s, he was her son Billy’s half-brother, just as Lottie was Billy’s half-sister.

‘We’ve got to put a stop to it before she gets in too deep.’ William frowned worriedly. ‘How can we do anything unless we tell her the truth? And that
means telling her
everything
.’

Emma met his gaze and her chin rose a little higher in defiance. ‘Then,’ she said, keeping her voice steady, ‘we’ll have to tell her everything.’ She leant closer.
‘Don’t you see, William, if this boy Micky really is his son, Leonard might still be alive?’

‘That’s exactly what I do mean. And maybe we’re not legally married. That’s part of what we’ve got to tell Lottie.’

Emma let out a long sigh. ‘I know.’ She put her hand on his arm and with great sadness said again, ‘I know.’

Almost inaudibly, William murmured, ‘And you know what that makes our daughter?’

Now rebellion sparkled in Emma’s brilliant eyes. ‘There’s worse things in this world than being illegitimate. She has two parents who love her dearly and besides, it was hardly
our fault, now was it? And another thing, maybe Leonard’s married again.’

William gave a bark of wry laughter. ‘Well, we can plead ignorance, but he can’t, now can he? He would knowingly have been committing bigamy.’ He was thoughtful for a moment
and then said, ‘But what grounds have we to stop Lottie and Micky being, well, whatever they want to be? I mean, they’re not related, are they?’

‘Not by blood, no. But you know what Leonard was. A gambler, a con-man living only just on the right side of the law.’ Remembering her life in the city with him, the dread of hearing
a knock on the door and then the final fiasco over the wireless set, Emma muttered, ‘Scarcely that at times. That’s not the sort of life you want for Lottie, is it?’

William spread his hands. ‘But that doesn’t mean to say this lad is the same. You can’t condemn him—’

‘If he is Leonard’s son, then of course he’ll be like him.’

‘Charles was his son,’ William reminded her gently. ‘And a finer lad you could not have met.’

Emma smiled, remembering, then her smile faded. ‘But young Billy was his double. Leonard
trained
him, William. He wanted his son to be like him. He was proud of it.’ She
wriggled uncomfortably as another memory thrust its way into her mind. ‘And Bridget, she indulged Billy too. He – he was her favourite. “Like father, like son,” she used to
say.’ Emma leant towards William and added, ‘And that’s exactly what she’ll be saying with
this
son too.’

Helplessly, William shook his head. ‘Darling, we’re still not even sure Micky is Leonard’s son.’

‘There’s something else I’ve remembered too. I once asked Leonard about his father, but he couldn’t remember him. It seems Bridget never actually married at all. But he
said there was one man who stayed with her longer than the rest when he was a boy. Leonard said that man was the closest he’d ever had to a father figure. And he was a gambler. “Taught
me everything he knew.” Leonard actually said those words. He was
proud
of it, William, as if he’d idolized the man. And I could tell from the way he spoke that he still, even
after all that time, felt the hurt of that man leaving.’

William was frowning, obviously wondering what all this had to do with their present concern.

‘That man’s name,’ Emma said slowly and deliberately, ‘was Mick.’

‘Oh,’ William said. ‘I see.’ He was thoughtful for a moment and then said, ‘But it still doesn’t prove anything. Not really.’

Emma swallowed. She could hardly tell her husband just why she was so certain that Micky Smith was Leonard’s son, but she knew he was. Oh yes, she knew as certainly as she knew the sun
would rise over the sails of Forrest’s Mill the following morning.

Quietly, she said, ‘You know, I could settle this one way or the other.’

‘How?’

‘I could go to Thirsby to see this boy’s grandmother.’

William stared and then nodded slowly. ‘And if it is Bridget – then, then at least we’ll know.’

Emma sat behind the wheel of the truck and started the engine. William, his hands on the door where the window was wound down, said, ‘Are you sure you don’t want me
to come with you?’

She shook her head and tried to smile but the nervousness in the pit of her stomach felt like fluttering butterflies. ‘No, no, I’m better going on my own, though I’d love you
to be with me. You know that.’

William smiled, touched her shoulder, saying, ‘Well, good luck, then.’ He stepped back and raised his hand in farewell as she let in the clutch and the vehicle moved slowly towards
the gate into the road.

If it hadn’t been for her errand, Emma would have enjoyed the short drive through the countryside between the two villages. The day was scorching, without a breath of wind, and in the
lanes, bordered by high hedges, the heat shimmered above the surface of the road. In the fields, cows congregated under the trees seeking whatever shade they could find.

She had no idea where Micky’s grandmother lived so, as she approached Thirsby, she slowed down looking for a post office or a village shop. She knew how often strangers called into her
shop to asking for directions.

The bell clanged as she stepped inside the tiny shop. Like her own premises, it was part of a double-fronted house. The woman behind the counter beamed a welcome.

‘I’m sorry to trouble you, but I’m looking for Micky Smith. I believe he lives with his grandmother. Do you know him?’

The woman laughed. ‘Well, I should do. He’s our Sunday paperboy. He’s a nice lad,’ she said. ‘Yew Cottage. That’s where he lives, as you say, with his
gran.’

Emma held her breath. ‘And her name is?’

‘Mrs Smith, of course.’ The woman stared a moment, then laughed. ‘Oh, I see, it might not be the same name if it was his mother’s mother. But, in this case, it is the
same.’