The tram had stopped at the terminus halfway up the hill. Blackie jumped down agilely and helped Emma to alight. ‘Careful now, love. It’s pretty bad underfoot. I don’t want ye to be having a spill and upsetting Tinker Bell,’ he said, clasping her hands tightly in his.
‘Tinker Bell?’
‘Aye, Tinker Bell. That’s what I be calling the baby, to meself of course. Ye know, after Tinker Bell in Peter Pan. Don’t ye approve of me name for her?’
She laughed. ‘Yes, I do, Blackie. But how do you know it will be a girl?’
‘Because ye keep telling me it will be.’ Blackie tucked her arm through his, pushed his hands into the pockets of his new navy-blue overcoat, and said, ‘That’s the Towers up there, where the rich folk live.’ He inclined his head towards a splendid driveway lined with trees. ‘And Town Street is just ahead of us. Now watch ye step. It’s slippery today.’
‘Yes, I will, Blackie.’ She drew closer to him, shivering. The north wind gusting down the hill was laden with frost and biting. Emma looked up. The sky was a frozen canopy soaring above them, icily white, and the pale winter sun was hardly visible, a tiny silver coin thrown negligently up into the far corner of that vast and hollow firmament. It was oddly silent now that the tram had stopped, for there were no carriages out or people abroad on this bleak and cheerless Sunday.
‘There’s Charley Cake Park,’ Blackie informed her, his head swivelling to the triangular-shaped plot on the opposite side of the road. ‘It’ll be a nice little place for ye to sit in the summer with Tinker Bell watching the passersby.’
‘I won’t have any time to sit anywhere with any Tinker Bell,’ Emma retorted, although this was said in a mild tone. She looked up at him sceptically. ‘Charley Cake Park! What kind of name is that? I bet you made it up.’
‘Now, why is it ye always challenge everything I be saying? I shall have to call ye Doubting Emma if ye are not careful, me lass. Anyway, that’s the name, sure and it is. Laura told me that years ago a man called Charley hawked cakes there and that’s how it—’
‘Got its name,’ Emma finished for him, her eyes full of merriment. ‘I believe you, Blackie. Nobody could invent a name like that.’
He grinned, but said nothing, and they walked on in silence. Emma glanced about her with considerable interest. They were now passing a neat row of houses facing on to Town Street. It reminded her of a scene from a fairy tale. Immense pie-like wedges of powdery snow slid across the red rooftops and hung precariously at the edges, and dripping from the gutters were countless icicles, shimmering scintillas of spun sugar in that pellucid air. Magically, the snow and ice had turned the mundane little dwellings into quaint gingerbread houses. The fences and the gates and the bare black trees were also encrusted with frozen snowflakes that, to Emma, resembled the silvery decorations on top of a magnificent Christmas cake. Paraffin lamps and firelight glowed through the windows and eddying whiffs of smoke drifted out of the chimneys, but these were the only signs of life on Town Street. The houses looked snug and inviting, and Emma imagined a happy family in each one; parents lazily warming themselves in front of the lambent flames, rosy-cheeked children at their feet, eating apples and oranges and roasting chestnuts, all of them laughing and enjoying a peaceful afternoon together, surrounded by love. She thought with a terrible yearning of her father and Frank and she wished with fervency that she was sitting with them in front of the fire in the little cottage in Fairley.
‘Now, Emma, here are the first of the shops,’ Blackie announced, his voice booming out in the stillness. ‘They go all the way down Town Street to Branch Road. Look, mavourneen, did I not tell ye the truth?’
Emma followed the direction of his gaze, her eyes wide with excitement, her sadness pushed to one side. ‘Yes, you did,’ she conceded. They passed the fishmonger’s, the haberdasher’s, the chemist’s, and the grand ladies’ dress establishment, and Emma recognized that this was indeed a fine shopping area. She was enormously intrigued and an idea was germinating. It will be easier to get a shop here. Rents will be cheaper than in Leeds, she reasoned logically. Maybe I can open my first shop in Armley, after the baby comes. And it would be a start. She was so enthusiastic about this idea that by the time they reached the street where Laura Spencer lived she already had the shop and was envisioning its diverse merchandise. Blackie might call her Doubting Emma, but she certainly had no doubts about one thing – her ultimate success. Her first shop would be in Armley and she would assiduously court the carriage trade. That was where the money was. Blackie had said so himself.
They walked along the street of terraced houses, all of them neat and respectable with their green painted doors, shining windows, trim gardens, and black iron gates. Just before they reached Laura Spencer’s house a thought struck Emma. She stopped and grabbed Blackie’s arm. ‘What have you told Laura about me?’ she asked.
Blackie gazed down at her, a faintly surprised look on his face. ‘Why, exactly what ye told me to tell her,’ he responded quietly. ‘The same story ye told everybody, right down to the last detail, Mrs Harte, sailor’s wife, expectant mother, dear friend of Blackie O’Neill.’ Emma smiled with relief and nodded, and they went up the garden path together. She wondered what Laura was like, but in a sense that hardly mattered to her. The important thing was that she made a good impression on Laura.
Emma now realized that Blackie had confided very little about his friend and she did not know what to expect as they stood on the front step. She certainly wasn’t prepared for the girl who opened the door and greeted them so charmingly, and with undisguised delight. Laura Spencer had the shining and tranquil face of a Madonna, and there was an expression of such trust in her eyes, and her smile was so loving, and so sweet, it was at once apparent to Emma that she was confronting someone who was unquestionably different from anyone else she had ever met.
Laura ushered them into the house, exclaiming on the rawness of the weather, sympathizing about the long cold journey they had just endured, her genuine concern for their well-being obvious. She took their coats, scarves, and Emma’s tam-o’-shanter and hung them on the hat-stand near the door, and then drew them into the parlour, moving with infinite grace as she led them to chairs grouped around a roaring fire.
Now Laura took hold of Emma’s hands as she said, ‘I’m so happy to meet you, Emma. Blackie has told me such lovely things about you. Goodness, your hands are cold! Sit here and get the chill out of your bones, dear.’
Emma said, ‘I’m glad to meet you, too, Laura.’ Without appearing to rudely scrutinize the room Emma swiftly took in the subdued blue-and-white-striped wallpaper, the heavy blue velvet curtains at the windows, the few pieces of mahogany furniture, scant but gleaming with beeswax, and the attractiveness of the other furnishings. The room was small but neat, and not at all cluttered like Mrs Daniel’s hideous front parlour. An air of solidness and comfort prevailed.
Laura said to them both apologetically, ‘I am sorry I wasn’t all prepared for you, but I had to visit a sick friend and I was delayed longer than I anticipated. I just got in a little while before you arrived. Anyway, the tea will be ready shortly, and the kettle’s boiling.’
Blackie said, ‘That’s all right, Laura. Don’t fuss yeself. We’re in no hurry, so take ye time, love.’ This was uttered so softly and so temperately Emma’s eyes flew to Blackie with quickening interest. She discerned a marked difference in his demeanour, which was restrained, and there was a look of mingled gentleness and respect on his face. This did not surprise Emma. She had already perceived that Laura’s refined manner was bound to bring out the best in other people.
‘Please excuse me for a moment or two,’ Laura continued in her soft voice, placing the remainder of the china on the table. ‘I have a few last-minute things to do in the kitchen.’
Blackie and Emma murmured their assent and Blackie said, ‘Do ye mind if I smoke me pipe, Laura?’ She was halfway across the floor and she turned and shook her head, her eyes filling with laughter. ‘No, of course not. Please make yourself at home, and you too, Emma.’