A Woman of Substance

by Barbara Taylor Bradford

  Joe had not touched that capital during these past few years. He had simply added to it, paying the revenue from the properties into the bank every month. Unlike his avaricious mother, there was little cupidity in Joe and as long as he had sufficient for his daily needs that was good enough for him Most of the time money never crossed his mind at all.

  However, he thought about it this night as he trudged through the dark wet streets. Two weeks earlier Emma had mentioned that she was investing in David Kallinski’s first clothing factory in York Road. She had already designed a line of ladies’ clothes for David and her enthusiasm was infectious. When Emma had suggested David might let him invest as well, Joe had been surprised. ‘Money should be made to work, Joe,’ Emma had pronounced, and she informed him that she hoped to double her money in no time at all.

  Although Joe was cautious by nature, this was chiefly engendered by shyness, rather than any particular canniness. His laissez-faire attitude about finances had prompted him to shrug nonchalantly and agree to invest, if David wanted him to do so. Emma had said she would arrange it. ‘I think two thousand pounds would be just the right amount,’ she had gone on. ‘If you can afford it. As a financial man, you should know, without me telling you, that money is a tool to be used to make more money, Joe. What good is it doing in the bank?’

  I don’t really need to make more money, Joe now said to himself. He was settled for life. On the other hand, he did not particularly want to lose two thousand pounds. He dismissed this negative thought. Joe had an infallible belief in Emma’s innate shrewdness, having witnessed it at first hand, and he had long recognized her brilliance in business matters, amazing for a twenty-year-old girl. He trusted her judgement. Also, Joe was intelligent enough to acknowledge that he was really investing in the clothing factory for the fun of it. He liked David and Emma, and because he had few friends and was miserably lonely, he longed to be involved in their lives, to be part of this exciting venture.

  So caught up was he in his diverse thoughts Joe found himself on his own doorstep in no time at all. He knocked the snow off his boots as he climbed the steps. Delicious aromas of food cooking greeted him, and the warmth of the sparkling kitchen dispelled his lonely feelings.

  Mrs Hewitt was setting the table for his supper. ‘There yer are, Joe,’ she cried, her face beaming. ‘By gum, yer look nithered ter death, luvey. Come ter the fire and get yerself warmed up.’

  ‘Hello, Mrs Hewitt,’ Joe said, taking off his cap and struggling out of his coat. He hurried over to the sink, rubbing his hands to dispel their iciness. He dried his hair and face, washed his hands, and then sat down by the fire. ‘It’s a blustery night, Mrs Hewitt, and very cold. I think there’ll be a hard frost.’

  Mrs Hewitt nodded. ‘Aye, yer probably right, lad.’ She glanced at him and frowned, ‘Nay, Joe, don’t sit there in yer wet boots, luv. Take ‘em off at once. That’s how yer get toothache, yer knows, luvey, sitting in wet boots.’

  Joe smiled at this old wives’ tale, but he unlaced his boots and placed them on the hearth to please her. She was a nice old body and looked after him far better than his mother ever had, and three nights a week she helped to transform this depressing house into a home.

  ‘Look at this custard flan,’ Mrs Hewitt exclaimed, pointing to the dessert on the table. ‘Have yer ever seen owt as luvely? I bought it as pudding for yer, at Mrs Harte’s. By gum, Joe, no wonder she does a roaring trade. And the way she’s trained them two lasses of Mrs Long’s to be her helpers, why, it fair takes me breath away.’

  Joe smiled at her. ‘I never thought she’d make such a go of it when she took that first shop. But she proved me wrong, and a lot of others as well.’

  ‘Aye, lad, she’s a right good tenant for yer,’ Mrs Hewitt conceded.

  ‘What’s for supper?’ Joe asked, warming his hands. ‘It smells good.’

  ‘I can’t be taking no credit for yer dinner tonight, Joe,’ the old woman replied. ‘I bought yer a steak-and-kidney pie from Mrs Harte’s, being as how yer liked the last one.’

  ‘It sounds grand, Mrs Hewitt.’

  ‘I was talking to Laura Spencer today, in the haberdashery, and do yer know, that wedding dress they’re making for me cousin’s lass is one of Mrs Harte’s own designs. Miss Spencer told me that Mrs Harte is going to be designing clothes for one of them big factory places in Leeds.’

  ‘So I understand,’ said Joe.

  ‘Fancy that and yer never told me, Joe.’

  ‘It didn’t occur to me, Mrs Hewitt. Is it so important?’

  ‘Of course it is, Joe. Anything ter do with Emma Harte is important. Why, everybody thinks she’s a right luvely young woman. So polite and dignified. The talk of Town Street with her fancy shops. And such a bonny lass.’ She carried the bowl of turnips to the oven and continued, ‘Would yer like a beer, Joe? I’ve got one cooling on the cellar head.’

  ‘I wouldn’t say no, Mrs Hewitt. Thank you.’ Joe lit his pipe and settled back in the chair, warming his damp feet.

  ‘Well, it’s all ready now, Joe,’ Mrs Hewitt proclaimed. ‘I’ve finished the pots and yer supper’ll stay nice and warm in the oven, luvey. Drink yer beer first, and then yer can help yerself later. I’ll have ter be off. Ta’rar.’

  Later, after he had read the paper, Joe took out the meat pie and vegetables and settled down to his supper. He had just finished eating when a loud banging on the door brought him up with a start. The door burst open to admit a flurry of snowflakes along with Mrs Minton, one of his tenants. Her face was purple and from the furious glint in her eyes Joe knew this was not caused by the icy wind but rather by her roiling temper.

  ‘Good heavens, Mrs Minton—’ he began.

  ‘Don’t Mrs Minton me, Joe Lowther!’ she yelled. ‘It’s a crime! A bloody crime. I just knew it! Ever since she moved in I knew she was after me shop. And when yer rented her that other one on t’corner I told me husband it wouldn’t be long before she had me out. There I am, plonk in the middle, between her food shop and her haberdashery, and she’s aiming ter squeeze and squeeze till she get’s me out inter the middle of Town Street. Yer can’t deny I’m right!’ The enraged Mrs Minton paused for breath, her hands on her hips, her stance defiant.

  ‘Please, Mrs Minton, calm down. I don’t know what on earth you’re talking about.’

  ‘I’m talking about Emma Harte, that’s what! She wants me shop! I don’t need a crystal bloody ball ter tell me that. She wants ter expand inter me shop. The shop I’ve had for ten years. The commercial travellers think she’s no good, hoitytoity stuck-up Mrs Harte. Lady Muck, they calls her. Cutting ‘em out, she is, going ter the manufacturers and warehouses herself and buying directly, instead of from the travellers. Then she slashes her prices so’s nobody else in Town Street can get a sale in edgewise. Aye, she’s a crafty cunning bitch, that Emma Harte is.’

  ‘Mrs Minton!’ Joe bellowed. ‘Emma Harte is a nice girl and she works hard. She isn’t trying to squeeze you out. She’s simply running her shops in a businesslike manner.’ Joe stared with distaste at the slovenly woman in her filthy coat and grimy scarf. She was a living reflection of her dirty shop, which was a triumph of confusion and run in the most slipshod manner imaginable.

  ‘Aye, I bloody expected yer ter defend her,’ Mrs Minton shouted. ‘I told me husband I wouldn’t be getting nowheres with yer. Stands ter reason yer’d watch out for yer fancy woman! Aye, and don’t look like that. We all knows what’s going on between the both of yer!’ She took a step nearer to Joe and peered into his face, hissing, ‘Yer fancy woman, that’s what Emma bloody Harte is, and she a married woman! I’m surprised yer haven’t put a bun in her oven already. But time will tell, me lad.’

  Joe had blanched. ‘Why, you foul-mouthed, despicable old woman. There is nothing between Mrs Harte and myself, other than a business relationship. And you’d better watch your words, Mrs Minton, or you’ll find yourself the recipient of a writ for slander. I will not tolerate this kind of disgusting talk!’<
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  Mrs Minton leaned forward and waved the rent book she was clutching under his nose. Joe thought she was going to strike him with it. ‘I think you had better leave, Mrs Minton,’ he said icily. ‘Before I really lose my temper. I’ve just about had enough of you.’

  With a toss of her head she swung on her heels and marched to the door. She looked back, her eyes blazing with animosity, and she shouted, ‘Well, she’s not going ter have the satisfaction of squeezing me out, because I’m leaving on me own account! And yer can take yer bloody rent book and shove it!’ She flung the rent book across the room at Joe and it landed in the custard flan.

  The door banged behind her. Joe stared at the rent book floating in the custard, fished it out, and carried it to the sink, wiping it clean with the dishcloth. He looked inside. Miserable old battle-axe, he thought, she owes me a month’s rent. He knew he would have to whistle for that. He did not care.

  Joe was horrified at the things Mrs Minton had said about Emma and himself. Surely they must have been uttered out of her consuming spite. Or did everyone in the neighbourhood really believe there was something between them? ‘Fancy woman’ was not a prestigious name to pin on a woman. It was just another way of saying tart. He might have guessed some people would talk, if only the likes of Mrs Minton. But he had never laid a finger on Emma, and he felt a flush rising to flood his face. It was with a rush of guilt that he recalled those nights when he lay awake in his chaste bed, hardly able to breathe, his desire for Emma blazing until he could not bear it. For desire her he did. On those terrible nights he envisioned himself running his hands over Emma’s beautiful body, pressing his mouth to hers, stroking her firm breasts, and ultimately taking her to him passionately. He shivered and closed his eyes, trying to obliterate those erotic images, those lustful and sensuous fantasies that haunted him.

  After a few moments Joe felt calmer. Wanting a woman and craving to possess her was one thing, but it was scarcely a reality, and he resented the ghastly implications of Mrs Minton’s words. Joe sighed wearily, recognizing that Emma had ruined the harridan’s business, albeit unintentionally. She made sure her products and the shops themselves were more appealing and attractive than others in the vicinity. Her specialities, such as her delicious homemade foodstuffs, were renowned, as was her dressmaking, and she had captured the carriage trade for miles around. With her audacity and her merchandising, her two shops had become the busiest in Town Street in just under three years, and her profits were high. Joe was aware of that from his weekly inspection of her ledgers. So enormously high, in fact, she could now afford to invest two thousand pounds in David’s business, as he himself intended to do. That kind of success was guaranteed to provoke jealousy and vicious talk.

  Joe stood up, determined not to dwell on Mrs Minton’s accusations. He would go and see Emma right away and tell her that Mrs Minton was about to vacate the premises. Emma could now have her third shop. Although she had never said a word to Joe, he knew that she had been angling for it for some time. It made sense, he had to admit that. With Mrs Minton gone Emma could indeed expand and the three adjoining shops would be like the department store she envisioned owning one day. He caught sight of the clock. It was well turned nine. He shrugged. To hell with the neighbours. I don’t care what they believe. He went upstairs to put on a clean shirt.

  Emma stood in the middle of the food shop and surveyed her handiwork with satisfaction. Everything looked beautiful, she decided, and it certainly had been well worth getting up at four-thirty that morning to create her special displays for Christmas. Her keen eyes spotted a particle of dust on one of the glass cabinets and she flew over with a cloth. She flicked it off and stood back scanning the cabinets that sparkled in the bright light from the gas fixtures on the walls. Now they were absolutely perfect and nothing marred their pristine glitter. The food inside looked delectable. There were Christmas cakes topped with almonds; round fat plum puddings wrapped in fresh muslin, each one tied with a gay red ribbon; a selection of mince pies of various sizes; and yule logs made of sponge cake, thickly coated with rich dark chocolate and decorated with sprigs of marzipan mistletoe. Emma, assisted by the Long girls, had spent endless hours baking all of this seasonal fare but she knew her industriousness would be rewarded. Every item would be sold, along with the additional supplies stored in large tins in the cool cellar.

  Emma smoothed the fresh white cloth on the table in front of the glass food cabinets and regarded her arrangement of foreign imports, delicacies she had purchased for the holiday season and which no other shop in Armley carried. She moved a blue-and-white china crock of crystallized ginger so that the French glazed fruits and the Turkish delight were easily visible, and deftly straightened the boxes of Egyptian dates and figs from Greece. She then hurried behind the counter and returned with a tray of small straw baskets containing marzipan fruits and jolly little pigs, which had arrived yesterday from Germany. The night before, Emma had lined the baskets with strips of crinkled green paper, and tied red bows on the handles. She was heavily stocked, but she anticipated a brisk business in the next few days. This was her third Christmas in the shop, and she was now so well established in the district she had no qualms about sales. She was convinced she would be inundated with customers, both her regulars and new ones.

  Emma gave the shop a final glance, her eyes critically seeking out the tiniest imperfection. Not one was visible. The innumerable shelves, running around the walls and soaring up to the ceiling, held tins of ham, pork, and game, great blackand-gold canisters of varied teas, all manner of other staples, and her own bottled fruits, vegetables, and jams. Ranged below were jars of candied peel, glazed cherries, mincemeat, and cranberry and apple sauces for the Christmas turkeys and geese. Three huge barrels, to the right of the side counter, were filled to overflowing with nuts, apples, and oranges for the children’s traditional Christmas stockings, and the faint aroma of fruit wafted sweetly on the air to blend with the mingled scents of the pungent herbs and spices from the Indies, the fragrance of the newly baked confectionery, and the mouth-watering smells of cheeses and cooked meats. Oh, how she loved her shop! Here she was secure, far away from the Fairleys and protected from them. She thought, too, and with enormous pleasure, of the forthcoming sales and her spiralling profits, and her face immediately broke into a smile.

  Now Emma crossed to the door, pulled up the blinds, and drew back the bolts in readiness for her first customers. These would undoubtedly be the cooks and housekeepers from the fine mansions, who usually came trooping in early in the day to place their orders. Emma hoped their shopping lists would be longer than ever this week.

  As the clock struck eight Emma took up her usual position behind the counter, seating herself on a stool next to the paraffin stove. She bent down and opened a cupboard, taking out the ledger for the haberdashery. In the year she had been renting Joe Lowther’s second shop business had far exceeded her wildest dreams. Laura, whom she had persuaded to manage it for her, had proved to be both capable and efficient, and sales had doubled in the first six months. Emma perused the columns of those beautiful figures and sighed in gratification and relief. Edwina’s future and her own were now assured.

  The tinkling of the bell brought Emma’s head up sharply and she put the ledger away and locked the cupboard. She stood up, smiling at the woman entering. It was the housekeeper from one of the fine residences in the elegant and exclusive row known as the Towers. ‘Good morning, Mrs Jackson,’ Emma said. ‘You’re out bright and early.’

  ‘Morning to you, Mrs Harte. By gum, it’s nippy today. I’m glad to be in your lovely warm shop. I don’t know why the other shopkeepers don’t follow your example and heat up their premises.’ Mrs Jackson shivered as she approached the counter with two large baskets. ‘I thought I’d best get my order in first thing, though I won’t be sending the gardener’s lad for it till later in the week.’ She handed over the baskets and sat down on the stool at the other side of the counter

  Emma st
owed the baskets away and said, ‘Can I offer you a cup of nice hot tea, Mrs Jackson?’

  The woman’s face, white and pinched from the freezing weather, lit up. ‘You can that, luv, if it’s no trouble. It was a right frosty walk down Town Street, I can tell you.’

  Emma always kept a huge pot of tea prepared in the cold weather, which she dispensed generously to her clientele. She had discovered that a little hospitality cost nothing and paid enormous dividends. She lifted the pot from the table next to the stove, adjusted the tea cosy and poured the tea. ‘Milk and sugar, isn’t it, Mrs Jackson? And how’s your little Freddy doing? Has he recovered from the measles?’ Emma asked. She made a point of knowing about her customers’ children and husbands, and their aches and pains, and she was always ready to offer a sympathetic ear.