by Rosie Clarke
‘Looked like he had plenty of money,’ Richard observed with a twist of his mouth. ‘He’ll forget you by next week, Emma. Throw the card away. You don’t want anything from his sort.’
I made no comment. Why was Richard so touchy over it? I knew it was just an instinctive reaction on the part of Mr Gould. He must have realized I would be insulted by an offer of money, but felt he wanted to show his gratitude. I had no intention of ever using the card, but thought it nice of him just the same.
‘Yes, all right,’ I said. ‘I’m hungry – and I want a cup of tea.’
Richard nodded, relaxing again. I wondered if he had noticed the car was very like Paul’s. Perhaps that was what had caused his jealous mood – or was there something more?
‘I’m looking forward to the show this evening,’ I said and smiled at him. ‘This is the best birthday I’ve ever had, Richard. You were good to think of it.’
His frown lifted. ‘Good. I’m glad. I want you to enjoy yourself.’
The show was even better than those Richard had taken me to on our honeymoon. I giggled over the comedian’s jokes, marvelled at the ventriloquist and jugglers, and was enraptured by the beautiful voice of the young female singer’s rendition of Cole Porter’s Anything Goes.
Afterwards, Richard took me out to supper. He had a couple of beers, but wasn’t in the least drunk when he made love to me later at our hotel. I let him do what he liked, but didn’t respond. It didn’t seem to matter, because he just turned over and went to sleep when he’d finished, seemingly satisfied.
Afterwards, I lay awake, staring into the darkness for a long time. This couldn’t be all there was to life. Surely there had to be something more?
I recalled the look of concern in the man’s eyes as he’d helped his wife into his car. It had been obvious to me that Mr Gould loved his wife very much. He had been so concerned for her, so considerate and gentle. I felt a pang of envy. It must be nice to be loved like that.
I slipped out of bed and went over to the window, looking out over the roofs of the buildings around the hotel. Then, on impulse, I took the small white business card from my jacket pocket and read the inscription.
Solomon Gould. Clothing Manufacturer.
Just that and a business address in the Portobello Road. I replaced the card. Why should I throw it away? I would never use it, of course, but would keep it as a kind of talisman: to remind me there was another way of life.
Perhaps one day …
‘Emma, what are you doing?’
Richard’s voice startled me, making me jump.
‘Just getting my dressing gown,’ I said. ‘I need to go to the bathroom.’
‘Take your key then,’ he muttered, a note of irritation in his voice. ‘Remember it’s down the hall to the right – and don’t get lost.’
‘No, I won’t,’ I promised.
Tears stung my eyes as I found my way to the bathroom. There must be another way to live, and one day I would find it.
‘He was taken bad again in the night,’ Mother said one morning, some weeks after the trip to London. She looked at me anxiously. ‘I wanted to send for the doctor, but he won’t let me. He says he’ll stay in bed today though.’
‘I’ll get down to the shop then,’ I said. ‘This is the third time he’s been really bad, Mum. We really ought to have the doctor.’
‘Wait for a bit,’ she advised. ‘Last time he was better after a few hours – and you know what he’s like about doctors.’
‘Yes, I do.’
I left her and went down to open the shop. I didn’t mind that Father was leaving things more and more to me these days, even though I was beginning to feel the baby now. I was more than four months gone and had started to show, though the loose overall I wore in the shop disguised it for the time being.
‘Hello, Emma,’ Sheila Tomms said. She was first in after the door was unlocked and was stamping her feet with the cold. ‘I reckon it’s nearly cold enough for snow. Can I have some toffee pieces please – and I’ll have this.’ She picked up a copy of Woman, then studied me with interest. ‘You look a bit pale. Are you all right?’
‘I was thinking about my father,’ I replied. ‘He’s been ill again. He’s resting today.’
‘So you’ve got to do everything?’ Sheila pulled a sympathetic face. ‘If you need any help, I could always come in for half an hour before I go to work.’
I smiled at her. I still liked Sheila, despite what Richard said about her being a whore, but I knew neither my husband or my father would tolerate her working in the shop.
‘That’s kind of you,’ I said. ‘But I can manage for the moment. If I need help later—’ I patted my stomach. ‘I’ll ask when the time comes.’
‘Yes, that might make things awkward.’ Sheila looked round the shop. ‘I wouldn’t mind working here.’
Father would never allow it, of course, but I wasn’t going to insult my friend by saying so.
‘I expect my father will be better soon.’
‘Let’s hope so.’ Sheila frowned. ‘You wouldn’t want anything to happen to him. If Richard got his hands on the money he’d soon drink it away.’ She laughed as she saw my face. ‘Sorry! I shouldn’t have said it – but Eric told me he was drinking too much. Something was said about it at work. You ought to stop him, Emma. He only used to do it at weekends, but he’s doing it more now.’
‘I know – but I can’t stop him.’
I dreaded the nights when Richard came home from a heavy drinking bout, and they had happened more often in the weeks since our visit to London. I stayed up for him now, shutting myself in the bathroom until I thought he might be asleep. Quite often he was, but sometimes he was waiting for me; it was those times that made me regret my marriage.
‘No, I don’t suppose you can,’ Sheila said. ‘I ought to have warned you before it was too late. I always knew he could be nasty when he’d had a few.’
‘You weren’t here,’ I reminded her. ‘And it wouldn’t have made any difference.’
‘No—’ She hesitated, seemed about to say something, then changed her mind as the shop bell rang. ‘See you later,’ she said, smiled and went out.
I served the next customer, then got on with my work. It was a busy morning and I was beginning to long for a sit-down when the door opened and a man came in. I stared at him in surprise, my breath catching as he smiled and handed me a bunch of dark crimson chrysanthemums.
‘Hello, Miss Robinson,’ he said, then laughed at his mistake. ‘Sorry. It’s Mrs Gillows now, isn’t it?’
‘Emma,’ I replied. ‘Are the flowers for me? How lovely. It’s very kind of you.’
‘I thought you might like them,’ Jonathan said, seeming almost bashful. ‘You look beautiful. Having a baby obviously suits you. I hope you don’t mind my calling? I was in the district and decided I would call to see how you were.’
‘I’m very well, thank you.’ I held the flowers to my nose, inhaling their strong scent. ‘I love these. Especially the big ones.’ My eyes met his shyly. ‘Did you get my letter? It was good of you to send me that money.’
‘It’s less than you deserve,’ he said, looking at me in a way that made me blush and avoid his eyes. ‘I’m sorry I didn’t come before, when I said I would.’
‘Your letter explained,’ I replied. ‘You couldn’t leave your aunt at a time like that. I understood, of course I did.’
‘Are you happy, Emma?’
The door of the shop opened. A customer came in. Jonathan waited while I served him, pretending interest in a row of birthday cards on the shelf, then we were alone again.
‘Are you all right?’ he asked. ‘Do you need anything? Is there anything I can do for you?’
‘I’m fine,’ I lied, wondering why his concern for me made my eyes sting. He was so kind … a little like I’d imagined Mr Gould to be. ‘I’m very grateful for all you’ve done for me.’
‘If there is ever anything—’ He broke off as Ben came in from the
stockroom at the back of the shop. ‘Anything at all.’
‘Yes, I’ll remember.’ I gave him a bright smile. ‘Thank you for these, and for coming.’
‘I’ve had my dinner,’ Ben announced. ‘You can get off for yours if you like. I’ll serve this gentleman.’
‘Oh yes,’ Jonathan said. ‘I’ll have a paper, thank you.’ His eyes met mine as he offered the exact change. ‘Goodbye.’
I took the money, holding it in my hand until he’d left the shop. Then I slipped the coins into the till, picked up my flowers and went upstairs.
‘They’re nice,’ Mother remarked as she took them into the kitchen and filled a vase with water.
‘Yes – a customer brought them for Father.’
I wasn’t sure why I’d lied, but I didn’t want to tell anyone the truth, even my mother.
‘I’ll take them in and show him,’ Mother said, then changed her mind. ‘No – you do it, Emma. I’ll put your dinner on the table.’
I showed the flowers to my father, but he wasn’t interested enough to ask who had sent them. He nodded and told me to take them away, because he didn’t like the smell.
‘Is there anything you want?’ I asked.
‘You could fetch me my tablets,’ he said. ‘A blue box in the top drawer of the chest in the stockroom.’
‘Should you be taking them as well as the doctor’s medicine?’
‘That stuff is useless,’ he grumbled. ‘Fetch my pills, there’s a good girl.’
I gave up and went to do his bidding immediately. There was no point in upsetting him. I opened the drawer of the chest, discovering that all the old boxes and bottles had gone. Only one box of tablets for indigestion remained right at the back of the drawer. As I reached for it a glimmer of something bright caught my eye. I moved a sheaf of old bills and saw the gold sovereign lying there. Picking it up, I turned it over in wonder. It looked new, pristine.
What on earth was it doing in the drawer? I was unsure whether to leave it there or take it to my father. Surely he couldn’t have meant to leave it there?
After a moment’s thought, I replaced it at the back of the drawer, but when I returned to the bedroom with the tablets, I mentioned it to my father.
He gave me a long, hard look, then grunted. ‘It was given to me by someone,’ he said, and somehow I knew he was lying. ‘I must have mislaid it. Put it back, did you?’
‘Yes, Father. I just thought you should know it was there.’
‘Good. I’ll see to it another day.’
‘I could bring it up if you like?’
‘No, leave it. I’ll attend to it.’
I nodded assent, turning as my mother called that dinner was ready.
‘You’re a good girl, Emma. I was wrong to disown you. You’re my daughter – whether you’re my blood or not.’
The implication was clear. He was telling me I meant something to him, even if my mother didn’t. I went out without saying anything, a lump in my throat.
Why couldn’t he have been kinder to me before this? We might all have been happy together. It had been such a waste, of his life and ours. I felt the sting of tears I refused to shed. I wasn’t going to cry, not for him and not for myself.
The next few weeks were tiring for me and my mother. Father’s illness seemed to be gaining on him little by little. Some days he would appear to rally, and he even went down to the shop a couple of times, but didn’t stop long. He wasn’t always sick now, but his body was getting weaker and his eyes looked dull.
I sensed my father was seriously ill. I went into his room to see him every morning, dinner time and evening, giving him news of the shop, making his pillows more comfortable, fetching his paper. There wasn’t much else I could do to help him, but I insisted on having the doctor again, despite his protests.
Doctor Barton gave me a long, pointed stare when I took him downstairs afterwards.
‘You’re looking tired,’ he said, his eyes dwelling on the swell of my stomach. ‘Isn’t it time you came to see me yourself?’
‘Should I?’ I asked. ‘I – I wasn’t sure. And I don’t have much time.’
‘I’ll make you an appointment for one evening, after shop hours,’ he said kindly. ‘I want you to promise me you will keep it – and that you won’t do too much.’
I promised to keep the appointment, but knew there wasn’t much hope of cutting down on my work. Ben was putting in extra hours to help me, but I couldn’t leave him alone for long.
We would need a more experienced assistant when my time came. Mother wasn’t used to being in the shop. Besides, she had her hands full looking after the house and Father. Richard was no use at all. He did occasionally lift a heavy box and bring in the coal, but he always complained if I asked him to help me.
Doctor Barton hadn’t said as much, but I believed my father was dying. He ought to go into hospital but wouldn’t, and his ill health hadn’t improved his tolerance of others. He refused to have any tests whatever, though he did take some of the herbal drink Gran had prepared for him.
She brought it after I told her how ill he was.
‘It won’t kill you,’ she told him sourly when he complained of the taste. ‘If I’d wanted you dead, Harold Robinson, I’d have done it long ago. You’ve nothing to fear from me.’
‘Curse me, would you?’ He gave her a wry smile. ‘Perhaps you have.’
‘I’ll take this with me then.’ She picked up the bottle. ‘You’re a fool to yourself, man. This will ease the pain, believe me. It ain’t a cure, there’s nothing will stop what you’ve got if I know anything about it – but this will make you feel better.’
‘Leave it then. Maybe I’ll drink some of it later. Don’t look like that, woman. I know better than to believe stupid gossip. You’ve a tongue on you like a rasp, but I’ve always respected you.’
‘Aye,’ Gran said. ‘You’re a mean old skinflint, Harold Robinson – but there’s worse.’
Her mixture was left on the dressing table. That evening he told me he thought the first dose had done him good, and asked for more. He took it regularly for three days, then declared he was right as rain and got up, coming down to serve in the shop while I got on with some book work.
‘That grandmother of yours knows a thing or two,’ he told me that morning. ‘I should have gone to her months ago. Doctors are a waste of time – and those pills I’ve been taking. I haven’t felt this well in an age.’
‘Good. I’m glad,’ I said.
He turned his eyes on me, giving me a searching look. ‘Yes, you are,’ he said, and smiled oddly. ‘You’re a caring girl, Emma. I’ve been wrong to treat you the way I have. Things will change for the better now. You’ll see.’
‘It doesn’t matter,’ I said, not wanting him to see his words had got to me. ‘I’m just glad you’re well again. I’d be the same with anyone who had been ill.’
‘Would you?’ he asked. ‘Maybe you would, Emma – and then again, maybe you wouldn’t.’
Richard was drunk when he came in that evening. I heard him stumbling up the stairs and caught my breath. Why must he do it? Why did he have to drink so much? What had I done to make him turn from me again?
And yet perhaps in my heart I knew. Since our return from London, I had not tried so hard to please him as I ought. Something in me could not help rejecting him. Richard had recognized that rejection, and this was his answer.
I tensed as I wondered what kind of a mood he would be in. If he went straight to bed I would sit up for a while, give him time to fall asleep.
He came into the parlour. I laid down my knitting. I saw his eyes go to it, saw the anger flare, and my heart sank. He was such a bully when he was in this mood.
‘Did you want something?’
‘Yes – you,’ he muttered. ‘Get in that bedroom. I want you where you belong, instead of sulking in here.’
‘No, Richard,’ I replied. ‘I’m too tired – and I don’t feel well. Besides, you might hurt the baby.’
‘Bloody good job if I did! Best thing I could do. Get rid of the bastard.’
I felt my face drain of colour. I stood up, placing my hands protectively over my stomach.
‘I’m not going to let you,’ I said, facing him defiantly. Any regrets I might have had for not being more loving towards him were gone instantly. ‘You’re drunk. I won’t be treated like this, Richard. When you’re sober you can do what you want, if you’re careful – but I’m not going to lie there and let you rape me night after night. I’ve had enough of it.’
‘You’ll do as I tell you,’ Richard muttered and made a grab at me. ‘Come here, you little slut.’
I screamed as he caught hold of my arm. I struggled, pushing at him as he snatched a handful of my hair and twisted my head round.
‘Let me go!’
‘You’re my wife. I can do what I like with you.’
‘She’s also my daughter,’ a voice said from the doorway. ‘Take your hands off her, you fool. You promised me you’d be good to her. It was part of our bargain.’
Richard’s hand fell away. He swung round in shock as he heard Father’s voice, his face a picture of dismay. He was obviously still in awe of my father, even in this state.
‘Thought you were sick,’ he said, slurring his words and staring stupidly. ‘Just having a little fun with my wife, that’s all.’
‘Fun?’ Father’s tone held the sting of a whiplash. ‘Is that what you call it? You’re drunk, man. I disapprove of too much strong drink. I won’t have such behaviour in my house. You’ve broken your word to me, let me down. I’m disappointed in you, Richard. This isn’t what I wanted for Emma. I thought you would take care of her.’
‘Just a little fun,’ Richard muttered, then vomited on the carpet. He stood swaying for a moment before pushing past Harold and making for the bathroom. ‘Just a little …’
We could hear him being violently sick again.
‘I’ll get a cloth and clear this up,’ I said, looking at my father anxiously. ‘You should be in bed, Father. I’m sorry about—’ I caught back a sob.
‘How long has this been going on?’
I was silent. Father’s mouth tightened, becoming white-edged with anger.
