‘Promise?’ asked the student.
‘Yes,’ said Harriet. ‘I promise that you’ll see a railway station.’
Emma was intrigued. ‘Why are they so interested in railway stations? Is it because you talk to them about it so much?’
Harriet smiled. ‘Not me. Mrs God does. It’s the first thing she teaches them and they spend rather a lot of time on it. Can you please tell me the way to the railway station? They go on and on about it and I suppose they become rather proud of being able to say it.’
‘How odd,’ said Emma. ‘I imagine they think that this is what people in Britain talk about all the time. Railway stations. The national conversation.’
Harriet was intrigued. ‘What do people talk about in Britain?’ she asked.
Emma thought for a moment. ‘The weather, mostly,’ she said. ‘That’s a very important topic of conversation. Oh, and football. People talk about football, although that’s mostly men.’
‘What do we talk about when they’re talking about football?’
Emma shrugged. ‘We talk about them. They don’t know it, but we talk about them.’
Harriet gave what sounded to Emma like a tiny, half-suppressed squeal of delight. ‘Oh, I think that’s true. I think that’s exactly what we like to talk about. Girl talk. Girl talk about men. Oh, yes!’
Emma glanced at her friend and then looked away. What am I doing, going off to Cambridge with this air … She stopped herself. Something that George Knightley had said to her came back to her, something about advantages in life. She glanced at Harriet again: what was her life? Mrs God and the English Language school? Foreign students going on about how to get to the railway station? A father somewhere whom she had never met who was no more than a biological progenitor and who would not even recognise her if he saw her? A vague hope of a gap year that would probably never materialise?
‘No, you’re right, Harriet,’ she said gently. ‘Men are a very interesting subject.’
Harriet leaned back in her seat as the bus negotiated a bend in the road. ‘But you’re so much more experienced than I am,’ she said. ‘I know so few men, and I’m not sure that I know all that much about the ones I do know.’
‘That surprises me,’ said Emma. ‘You’re very beautiful, Harriet, and men like beautiful girls. They’re funny that way. You’d think that you’d know tons of men.’
Harriet was pleased with the compliment, but her pleasure was soon overtaken by doubt. ‘Yes, I do see them looking at me from time to time, but I never seem to know what to say to men.’
‘Don’t say anything,’ said Emma. ‘What’s there to say, anyway?’
‘For example,’ said Harriet. ‘I was in Holt the other day and this man came up to me and said something I just couldn’t understand.’
‘Perhaps he was asking the way to the railway station.’
Harriet shook her head. ‘I don’t think so.’
‘So what did you do?’
Harriet looked embarrassed. ‘I screamed. Not very loudly. Just a little scream.’
Emma looked at her in astonishment. ‘So what happened?’
‘He turned on his heels and ran away.’
‘I should think so too,’ said Emma. ‘You did the right thing, Harriet.’
Harriet was not so sure. ‘But what if he were entirely innocent? What if he really were asking the way to the railway station? What if he were some poor Swedish tourist or whatever who had got lost and thought that he could ask me for help?’
Emma agreed that this would have been a shame. ‘There are some men who are quite innocent,’ she said with mock seriousness. ‘Very few, I believe, but there are some. And yes, it would be very discouraging if one were practising one’s English and all that the person to whom you spoke did was to scream. That would be very discouraging indeed.’
Emma could hardly believe that she was having this ridiculous conversation with Harriet, but it seemed to her that when she was in Harriet’s company she somehow regressed. And yet it was not unpleasant. Harriet was completely unchallenging; she would never say anything that required too much thought; she would never say anything that would unsettle. And what harm was there in spending time with such an undemanding friend? It was not much different, surely from spending an afternoon curled up on the sofa with a magazine – an innocent pleasure, and one to which one could surely treat oneself from time to time.
The bus dropped them off as close as it could to the centre of Cambridge, which was across the Backs. On the other side of the river, outlined against a pale blue sky, rose the spires of King’s College. On the Cam, slow-moving in its August somnolence, a college punt, poled by a young man in jeans and a plum-coloured blazer, moved lazily downriver, overtaken by a family of purposeful ducks.
Harriet addressed the students, who were milling about, chatting excitedly in Italian. She explained that they had three hours, and that she would expect them back promptly, as the bus would be waiting for them. Then the students dispersed, breaking up into several groups of friends, consulting the small maps of the city that Harriet had given them at the start of the journey. Emma and Harriet followed them as they crossed the bridge and headed towards King’s, but soon lagged behind and lost sight of them.
‘I hope they all come back,’ said Harriet. ‘I don’t know what I’d say if I had to go back and tell Mrs God we were one or two short.’
‘I expect she’d be pretty relaxed about it,’ said Emma. ‘That cake of hers …’ Harriet frowned, and Emma let the subject drop. ‘We can go and have some tea in one of those tearooms on King’s Parade.’
‘And do some shopping,’ said Harriet.
‘Of course.’
‘Not that I can buy anything,’ said Harriet. ‘I don’t have any money, I’m afraid. But I like looking. And you can have almost as much fun shopping if you don’t buy anything. You can try things on.’
Emma looked down at the ground. I don’t have any money. She wondered what it would be like to be broke. Plenty of people were in that position, scraping around for money for the most basic necessities; she knew that of course – intellectually, but not in the essential, empathetic way that such knowledge calls out for. She had never experienced that in her life. Not once. While she was at university, her trustees – a firm of solicitors in Norwich – had given her an allowance of two thousand pounds a month, and that had recently gone up to three. She had no tax to pay on that; she paid no rent; she never had to buy any food or any petrol for the Mini Cooper. All she had to do was buy clothes. She had accepted that as her due; it was her money after all.
She turned to Harriet. ‘I could treat you to something.’
Harriet’s response was immediate. ‘Oh no. I couldn’t expect you to do that. That’s really kind, but I couldn’t.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because it’s your money. I can’t expect you to spend your money on me.’
‘But I want to. I want to get you a present.’ She paused. ‘And you know something, Harriet? When somebody offers you a present, you should accept.’
Harriet looked uncomfortable. ‘You don’t have to feel sorry for me, Emma. I’m all right, you know.’
Harriet’s insight took Emma by surprise. She was right: she had been feeling sorry for her, and of course nobody wanted pity. She would deny it … No, she would not. ‘Yes, I was feeling sorry for you. But I can see that you don’t want that.’
‘Of course I don’t. Nobody does.’
‘All right. I’ve stopped feeling sorry for you.’
‘Good.’
‘But does that mean I can’t buy you a present?’
Harriet was silent. Then, when she spoke, her voice was quiet. ‘I said that you don’t have to. But if it’s going to make you happy, then you can. If you really want to, that is.’
‘I do,’ said Emma. ‘I want to.’ And as she said that, she tried to remember when she had last bought a present for anybody. There had been a present for her father for his birthday, a su
bscription to Country Life – the same thing that she had given him every year for the last four years – but apart from that, she could not remember anything. She asked herself whether she could possibly have been that mean? Yes, she thought, I have. But then she remembered the violet creams that she had given to Miss Bates, and that made her feel better; only momentarily, though, because it occurred to her that the violet creams were not a real gift but recompense – and inadequate recompense at that – for the egregious wrong she had done.
Emma was reasonably familiar with Cambridge shops and knew one where she might find just the right present for Harriet. This was a dress shop called Summer Nights that was on a small street off King’s Parade, sandwiched between a jeweller’s and an old-fashioned cheesemonger’s. Summer Nights catered for well-heeled visitors and for the wealthier undergraduates, being one of those shops that did not deign to put prices on the items it displayed in the window. For those on a budget, that is always a very clear indication that the shop is not for them; for those in a position to buy what was on display, it was a reminder that price was not the real issue. Emma had bought dresses there on a number of occasions, and was a regular and appreciated customer.
Harriet understood this perfectly. ‘We can’t go in there,’ she said to Emma. ‘That’s going to be far too expensive.’
This merely goaded Emma on. ‘Yes, we can. I’ve been in there loads of times. I know what their stuff costs.’
Harriet shook her head. ‘We can’t.’
Emma took her friend by the arm and pushed her gently through the door. ‘Yes, we can.’
The assistant had been sitting behind the counter, but rose to her feet when she saw them come in.
‘Emma,’ she said, smiling in welcome. ‘It’s great to see you.’ Emma made the introductions. ‘Sally, this is my friend, Harriet. Harriet, this is Sally, who sells the best clothes in Cambridge. That’s official.’
‘I won’t argue,’ said Sally. She glanced at what Harriet was wearing, and then, discreetly, looked back at Emma. Emma realised that she did not need to give any explanation to Sally.
‘Have a look round,’ said Sally. She glanced again at Harriet before adding, ‘The size tens are mostly on this rack, but I’ve got some other things over here, and in these drawers too.’
‘You’re ten, aren’t you?’ asked Emma, adding, ‘Everybody is, aren’t they? Even those who aren’t.’
‘Really,’ said Harriet. ‘You really shouldn’t.’
‘I want to,’ whispered Emma. ‘Please let me. It’s just something that I want to do.’
‘But everything will be so expensive. And, anyway, I can’t decide. I never can.’
Sally’s head was turned away during this exchange – she was tactful – but she had heard every word. Her hand went out to the rack of dresses. ‘You know, I’ve got something special here,’ she said. ‘It’s just come in. Italian cashmere.’
She slipped a dress off its hanger and held it up for inspection. ‘A cashmere jersey dress. We’d usually have this in winter, but it’s fine as long as the weather isn’t actually boiling.’ She paused. ‘And when does it boil round here?’
‘Never,’ said Emma.
Sally held out the dress to Harriet. ‘It’s your colouring,’ she said. ‘You can wear blue. Can’t she, Emma?’
‘Yes, she can. She can wear anything, I suspect, and look like a million dollars.’
‘I can’t,’ protested Harriet. ‘This dress is lovely, but I don’t think so.’
Emma ignored this. ‘Try it on.’
‘Yes,’ urged Sally. ‘Just try it. No harm. And shoes? I’ve got the most fabulous suede ankle-boots. I promise you, they’re just made for that dress. They’re both Italian.’
‘I don’t need any shoes,’ said Harriet. ‘I’ve got shoes.’
‘You can never have enough shoes,’ said Emma firmly.
‘No,’ said Sally. ‘Emma’s right. You have to have lots of shoes.’
Harriet was led to the fitting booth and the curtain drawn for her. Sally nodded at Emma. ‘She could wear anything,’ she whispered. ‘You’re right.’
‘Find those ankle boots,’ said Emma.
‘You’ve been so kind,’ said Harriet as they left the shop.
Emma said nothing, but acknowledged the thanks with a smile.
‘Nobody has ever done anything like that for me,’ continued Harriet. ‘I don’t know what to say.’
‘You don’t need to say anything.’
They were in the street outside the dress shop but Harriet suddenly turned and embraced Emma, hugging her friend to her. Emma felt the bag containing the dress and shoes press against her uncomfortably. She felt herself flush with embarrassment.
‘OK,’ she said. ‘It’s OK.’
A couple of young men walked past them. They did not look, but one addressed the other in a voice intended to be heard. ‘Cool. I like that sort of thing.’
The other young man laughed. Harriet let Emma go. ‘I’m sorry, I got carried away. I’m just so … well, I’m just overcome.’
Emma felt slightly flustered by Harriet’s effusive show of gratitude. ‘Let’s just walk along King’s Parade. There are more shops.’
‘You mustn’t buy me anything else,’ said Harriet. ‘Ever.’
Emma laughed. ‘I might get some shoes myself. What did Sally say back there? You can never have enough shoes.’
‘No, you said that.’
‘Did I? Well, then, it must be right.’
They walked on, making their way through the afternoon crowds of visitors. Cambridge in summer was busy, even with the regular students being away; as one set of young people departed, their place was taken by another: Australians, Americans, Koreans – a hotchpotch of nationalities eager to experience the benison of the ancient academic city. On the King’s Parade, several young men, wearing straw boaters, plied their touts’ trade, trying to persuade people to rent a river punt. A small group of Japanese girls giggled at the importuning; elsewhere a crowd had gathered around a street performer who was extracting coloured handkerchiefs from a top hat; the locals, indifferent, walked past on their business. Emma said, ‘What’s the point of taking handkerchiefs …’
She did not finish. Harriet had gripped her arm. ‘Over there. Isn’t that him?’
Emma looked about her. ‘Who?’
‘That guy.’
‘What guy?’
‘Frank what’s-his-name?’
Emma looked in the direction in which Harriet was pointing. The crowds had thickened, and she was not sure whom she was meant to be looking for? Frank? Frank Churchill?
‘You mean Frank Churchill?’
‘Yes,’ said Harriet. ‘I’m sure I saw him. With that Jane girl.’
‘Jane Fairfax?’
‘Yes. I’m sure it was them.’
Emma searched the crowd, looking for Frank’s golden head of hair. He was tall; he should be visible. There was no sign of anybody who looked like him. She turned to Harriet and asked her whether she was sure.
‘I think so,’ said Harriet. ‘You can’t really miss him. And it was her too – she’s quite distinctive-looking.’
‘Where were they going?’ she asked.
‘That way,’ said Harriet, pointing down the street in the direction of St John’s and Heffers Bookshop.
Emma made up her mind. ‘Let’s find them.’
‘And speak to them?’ asked Harriet.
‘No,’ said Emma. ‘I’m just a bit curious to find out what they’re doing.’
‘There’s no reason why they shouldn’t be in Cambridge,’ said Harriet. ‘They’re probably shopping.’
‘Maybe,’ said Emma.
They walked on, Emma setting the pace. She was intrigued. Earlier on, she had detected Jane’s interest in Frank, but had assumed that she had disabused her of any illusions as to her chances with him. Perhaps Jane had decided on a simple friendship with Frank; that was no concern of hers, except that … She bit her
lip. She felt a tug of envy. Frank Churchill was her property, not Jane’s. Jane was nothing; she was a visitor for the summer who had not even met Frank before. She – Emma – had known him for years – or rather, even if she hardly knew him, she had met him years before on one of his trips from Australia and James was virtually family; all of which meant that she, rather than, Jane, should be walking around Cambridge with him. This was not to say, of course, that she fancied him – she told herself that she did not. He was extremely good-looking and he had that smile that she had already observed, and there was that cleft in his chin … but this was not about any of that. She knew there was absolutely no point in falling in love with somebody who was not going to be interested; that was not the point: the point was that he would have far preferred to be shown round Cambridge by her rather than by that stand-offish iceberg, Jane Fairfax.
It did not take them long to reach the entrance to St John’s. There was no sign of Frank and Jane in the street, and the crowd had by that stage thinned out. They had paused in front of Heffers, and Emma had looked in through the open front door. Again there was no sign of the couple, and Emma shook her head when Harriet suggested they might have gone downstairs, or possibly upstairs. ‘I don’t think so,’ she said. ‘I don’t see Frank in a bookshop.’
‘Well, then maybe I was wrong. Maybe it wasn’t him.’
‘No,’ said Emma. ‘I don’t think you were wrong.’
‘Well, we don’t have to find them, do we? You said that you wanted to find some shoes. There was an interesting shoe shop back there.’
Emma looked up at the gate of St John’s, at the elaborate stone-carved arms. Suddenly she remembered the conversation she had had with Jane when she had called to inspect the new piano. She had mentioned that she had been at Cambridge – Emma having dragged the admission out of her – and had said that her college was St John’s. Of course; of course that was it: Jane would be showing Frank Churchill her old college.
‘Let’s go in there,’ said Emma.
Harriet was uncertain. ‘Into that college? Are we allowed?’
‘Of course we are,’ said Emma. ‘We pay for these places. It’s taxpayers’ money that keeps them going.’
Emma: A Modern Retelling Page 27
