Emma (25 page)

‘I don’t know.’ Sheila looked nervous. ‘He threatened me one night – about the time your father was taken bad. Said if I opened my mouth they would find me in the river one day.’

‘Oh, Sheila!’ I felt sick as I recalled the night I’d seen them arguing outside the pub. I’d been to fetch Father’s medicine. Richard had been about to follow her, and then he’d seen me standing on the opposite side of the road. ‘You don’t think he meant it? He was just angry – afraid you might say something to me.’

‘I expect so.’ She shrugged. ‘Perhaps I shouldn’t have told you. It’s just that I thought you should know he can be dangerous.’

‘He has a temper, especially when he’s drunk, but I don’t believe he would murder anyone.’

‘The police never found that girl’s killer,’ Sheila said. ‘I’ve often wondered if—’ She laughed and shook her head, clearly embarrassed. ‘Don’t take any notice of me, Emma. It’s my imagination. You won’t tell him I said anything?’

‘No, I shan’t tell him, Sheila – but I think you’re mistaken. Richard is a bully, but I can’t think he would deliberately kill anyone. Why should he?’

She shrugged, looked as though she wanted to say more, but decided against it. ‘No doubt I got it all wrong – but take care of yourself, Emma.’

‘You too,’ I replied. ‘I shall look forward to the wedding. It will be an excuse for a new dress.’

Sheila laughed, paid for her purchases and went out.

I felt cold and shivery as I thought about what she had told me. That night I’d seen her with Richard outside the pub – would he have followed her and killed her if I hadn’t been there? It was too horrible to contemplate. Richard was a lot of things – but surely not a murderer…

‘Have I been too long?’

Ben’s voice made me swing round. ‘Why do you ask?’

‘You were frowning something awful.’

‘No, you haven’t been too long – but I’m going to have a clear-up in the stockroom. You can manage here, can’t you?’

‘Course I can,’ Ben said cheerfully. ‘You get on, Emma.’

I smiled at him, thanked him and went into the stockroom. I had been meaning to clear out some of the old boxes for ages. Father would never let me, but there was no reason I shouldn’t now – and I needed something to keep me busy. Sheila had unsettled me more than I cared to admit.

I attacked the accumulation of rubbish with a good will. I hadn’t felt like doing it after Father died, but now I was determined to have a good clear-out. I broke up and stacked several rotten crates, putting them out in the yard. They could go in the woodshed to be used for the fire. There were also piles of newspapers and empty cardboard boxes. These joined the crates in the yard. Behind them, I discovered five sealed boxes. My heart raced with excitement – could I have found Father’s secret hoard at last?

The first contained children’s colouring books; the second, writing paper; the third, envelopes; the fourth, pencils. The last was smaller and very heavy. My mouth went suddenly dry as I picked it up and broke the seal. Inside were several good quality silver cigarette cases and lighters. I supposed they must be worth a hundred pounds or more.

No sign of the elusive sovereigns, but at least I could fill some of the empty spaces on the shelves – and the cigarette cases would look nice in the locked cabinet behind the counter.

I carried the boxes one by one into the shop, leaving Ben to put out the stationery. Removing all the old boxes from the stockroom had revealed the wall, which was unplastered brick, painted a dull cream and showing signs of crumbling. I knelt down, running my hands over the bricks to see if there were any loose ones. It took me several minutes to check properly, but in the end I gave up.

If Father had hidden some sovereigns, it wasn’t here. I’d really thought I might have found them under all the rubbish, but my search had been fruitless.

Perhaps there had ever only been one. So what had Father done with his money?

At least my efforts had settled my thoughts. Sheila had let her imagination run away with her – just as I had when Gran had pretended to put a curse on Richard.

Two months had passed since my son had been born. He was thriving and my relationship with Richard seemed to have improved – except that he hadn’t tried to make love to me.

I told myself it didn’t matter. We lay apart in our bed every night, neither of us attempting to bridge the gap between us. My memories of his past brutality did not exactly encourage me to welcome a return of his lovemaking, but I had promised myself I would try to rescue something from the ruins of this marriage.

Perhaps if Richard had a child of his own he would feel happier, more secure. I’d seen him looking at my son sometimes, and I had tried not to shudder inside or show my feelings. That odd expression on his face meant nothing. He wouldn’t harm James. He had promised to be a good husband. And yet I accepted Mother’s offer to have my baby sleep in her room, and when I got up for his nightly feeds, I was always careful not to wake Richard. But as much as I disliked the idea of any further intimacy with my husband, I knew the initiative had to come from me.

‘Richard.’ I turned towards him, putting a hand on his shoulder. ‘Are you asleep?’

‘No,’ he muttered, obviously on the verge of going off. ‘Is something wrong?’

I moved a little closer, so that our bodies were almost touching. I didn’t want to do this, but I knew it might be the only way to guarantee a good life for my child and myself. If Richard could be made to think I cared for him even a little, he might be kinder towards my son. It was an effort to make myself, but I forced the words out.

‘It’s two months, Richard. I’m all right now – if you want to … you know.’

He seemed to freeze for a moment, then he reached out for me, drawing me closer. I could smell beer on his breath, but he hadn’t drunk too much.

‘I thought you wouldn’t want me to touch you.’

I stroked his face in the darkness, then stretched up to brush my lips over his. ‘It’s all right, Richard. I want things to be good between us – the way they were at the start.’

He moaned low in his throat. His mouth fastened on mine, his hands beginning to knead my breasts beneath my flimsy nightdress. I stiffened without meaning to as he moved his body on top of mine, waiting for the inevitable – and then he stopped, rolling on to his back with a grunt.

‘Richard?’ I said. ‘It’s all right. I’m just a bit nervous.’

‘Go to sleep, Emma,’ he muttered. ‘I don’t want to force you.’

‘You weren’t,’ I whispered, but I turned away from him. I had made the effort but could not deny my feeling of relief. ‘Another night, then. Perhaps I’m just tired.’

Tears slipped down my cheeks as I lay sleepless long after Richard was snoring at my side. All I could think of was the empty years ahead.

I turned my thoughts towards other things. I had written to Jon telling him he must not send me any more money. I had thanked him for his kindness, but insisted he must not give me his own wages in future.

I supposed it would mean the end of our friendship. He had kept in touch out of a sense of duty, of course – but it could not go on.

Eventually, I drifted into sleep. I might have mentioned his name. I might even have cried a little.

The news in the papers was worrying. It seemed that a war was creeping ever nearer. The government had brought in conscription, and a lot of young men were being sent their call up papers.

I wondered if Richard would have to join up, but when I mentioned the possibility he gave me an odd look and said it was unlikely.

‘They’ll need men to drive the trains,’ he said, his eyes narrowed and accusing. ‘You’ll not get rid of me that easily, Emma.’

‘I didn’t want to get rid of you, Richard. I was just wondering, that’s all.’

I sighed as I saw his scowling look. There were days when his moods were as bad as ever, but at least he hadn’t hit me – not since Gran had threatened him.

It was now the middle of May. The sun was shining as I wheeled my son’s pram along the High Street. I stopped outside Mrs Henty’s shop, looking at a pretty dress in the window. She came to the door to speak to me.

‘It’s smart, isn’t it?’ she said. ‘I thought of you when I bought it. It’s from a new supplier in London.’

‘I like it a lot,’ I said. ‘But I ought not to buy another new dress. I had one for Sheila’s wedding.’

‘Yes, I know. It was that nice blue one with the gored skirt. But this is special, Emma; better quality than we usually stock.’ She felt in the pocket of her suit jacket and took out a business card to show me. ‘The salesman told me there was a lot more on sale at their workrooms in the Portobello Road.’

I glanced at the card, feeling a shock of surprise. ‘Solomon Gould – I met him once. When Richard took me to London for my birthday. His wife was ill. I helped her and he gave me a card like this one.’

‘It wasn’t Mr Gould himself who came here.’ She looked thoughtful. ‘You wouldn’t like to go up, would you, Emma? I couldn’t leave the shop. Besides, you have such good taste.’

‘I should like that.’ I looked at her in dawning excitement. ‘It would be nice to get away.’

‘Why don’t you?’

‘I’m not sure that Richard would let me.’ The excitement faded almost at once. ‘He doesn’t know about our arrangement. No, I couldn’t go, Madge. I’m sorry.’

‘It was just a thought. I expect the salesman will call again.’ She bent over the pram, cooing at James. ‘He is a little love, Emma. Come and see me at the weekend. I’ll have some money for you.’

I nodded and began pushing the pram again. People stopped to look at my son and congratulate me. I was feeling relaxed and happy when I became aware of a car drawing up at the kerb. Turning to look, my heart caught as I saw Jon smiling at me. He was driving his uncle’s car – the one Paul had been using the first time we met. Jon opened the window and called to me.

‘I was coming to the shop,’ Jon said. ‘Then I saw you. You look lovely, Emma. You seemed so low the last time we met. I’ve been worried about you.’

‘I’m fine,’ I said. It was so good to see him. I hadn’t realized how much I’d missed his occasional visits. ‘Did you get my letter?’

He frowned and looked serious. ‘That’s partly why I came. I need to talk to you. Could we go somewhere? Perhaps have tea together?’

‘I would need to take James home. His pram wouldn’t go in the car.’ I hesitated, knowing I was taking a risk. ‘Why don’t you come to the house? We could have tea upstairs, and you can hold James. If you would like that?’

I read the answer in his eyes before he spoke, and I knew he wanted to make this visit last a little longer as much as I did.

‘Are you sure?’

‘Yes, of course. My mother will be there – she would enjoy meeting you.’

‘Shall I follow you?’

‘Park your car, then come through the passage to the back yourself. I’ll let you in.’

Jon nodded. My heart was racing as I pushed the pram back to the house. By the time I’d put it in the shed in the yard, Jon was at the back door of the house. He took James from me while I unlocked it, holding the child gently and with great care.

‘He’s beautiful. You must be very proud of him, Emma.’

‘Yes, I am.’ We smiled at each other as I led the way up the stairs. I called to my mother as we reached the landing. She came out of the kitchen, wiping her hands. Her expression was almost comic in her surprise.

‘Emma?’

‘This is Jonathan Reece, Mum. He’s Paul’s cousin. I’ve told you how generous he has been to me. He was passing, so I asked him up for tea. That’s all right, isn’t it?’

‘Yes, of course.’ I took James from him as he came to shake Mum’s hand. ‘It is so nice to meet you at last, Mr Reece. You have been very kind to my daughter.’

‘Please call me Jon,’ he said, clasping her hand with both of his. ‘I hope you don’t mind my turning up out of the blue?’

‘Not at all. I’ll put the kettle on.’

I took Jon into the parlour, then went to put James in his cot near the settee. My son looked at me with his big eyes and blew bubbles. He looked so beautiful that my throat caught with love for him.

Jon sat on the settee. I knelt down by the cot. When I glanced up, he was smiling down at me.

‘I’ve imagined this so many times,’ he said. ‘I think of you often, Emma.’

My heart contracted with pain as I saw the naked longing in his eyes, and realized something that I had known in my heart for months. He cared for me, far more than he ought.

‘You mustn’t, Jon,’ I whispered. ‘It isn’t right for you.’

‘Are you happy?’

‘No, not very.’ I couldn’t lie to him. ‘I have been very unhappy since my marriage – but it is a little better at the moment. Richard was jealous about the child. My marriage was a mistake.’

‘Then why …?’

I stood up and walked over to the window, looking down at the yard and Mother’s tiny garden at the bottom. I wasn’t sure how to answer him. Why didn’t I leave Richard? Because of my father’s will. And because I had been trying to save my marriage – but in my heart I knew it would never work out for us. This was just the lull before the storm.

Richard had tried to make love to me twice since the night I had invited him to do so, but both times he had turned away – even though I had tried to welcome his advances. And he was drinking again. Not as much as before, not enough to make him violent, but enough to make him fall asleep every night without touching me.

I felt a gentle touch on my shoulder. I turned and gazed up into Jon’s eyes, making no attempt to resist as he took me into his arms. His kiss was so sweet, so tender, that tears sprang to my eyes.

‘I love you, Emma,’ Jon said huskily. ‘I think I’ve loved you almost from the first moment we spoke.’

‘You couldn’t have,’ I choked, tears blinding my eyes. ‘You knew about … you had seen me with Paul.’

‘That didn’t stop me thinking you were the prettiest girl I’d ever seen. Then when I found you crying, I just wanted to look after you.’ There was sadness in his eyes, and love. ‘I was afraid to speak out that first afternoon. You were in trouble and upset – how could I tell you how I felt? It was too soon. I meant to talk to you the next time we met, to ask you if you would consider marrying me – just to make things easier on yourself. If my uncle hadn’t died I would have but I couldn’t come to you as I’d promised. And then it was too late. I’ve wished a thousand times I had told you how I felt at the beginning, but I’ve never been much with words.’