Emma sat in front of the fire in the parlour of Laura’s house, staring morosely into space, her mind weighted down with a problem; a problem that pushed all else to one side. She had lived with it for the last few days, ever since the baby had been born. Now she knew it must be solved, and imminently. Emma had many imperatives, but taking precedence was her concern for her child. It was essential that she make a decision about the baby’s immediate future. She could not afford to procrastinate.
Emma shivered, suddenly aware of a coldness in her legs, a numbing aching in her bones. She bestirred herself heavily, not as swift of movement as usual, picked up the poker and drove it into the logs in the fireplace, angrily as if to ventilate her sense of helplessness. The logs fell apart, sputtered, and flooded the room with the brightest of lights that illuminated its shining neatness, its cosy comfort.
The light glanced across the child lying at her feet in the makeshift cot, which Laura had fashioned out of a drawer and had lined with thick blankets and downy pillows. The baby lay on her side, her fluff of silver-blonde hair shimmering in the firelight, her round pink face turned to Emma, her tiny hand curled in a miniature fist next to her delicate mouth. She slept in perfect peace. This child was hers. Part of her. How could she ever give her up? Quite unexpectedly, a fierce sense of protectiveness invaded Emma and that single-mindedness of purpose to succeed, to rise above her circumstances, was strongly reinforced. ‘I won’t let anything happen to you!’ she whispered softly but with vehemence to the sleeping child. ‘I won’t! And you’ll have the best that money can buy. I promise you that!’
Emma continued to observe her daughter, now four days old, for a few moments longer and then she turned back to the fire. No sacrifice she could ever make would be too great if it ensured the security and well-being of her baby. Eventually she picked up the flannel nightgown she was making, determined not to dwell on the future. She began to sew. One step at a time. One day at a time. Slowly. Slowly. Building as you go along. That is the only way.
As she continued to ply her perfect stitches, an aura of total dejection, abnormal for Emma, enveloped her. She knew she could not keep the baby with her, even though she longed to do so. She had to work at the mill to earn a living and there was no one available to care for the child during the day. Emma would not countenance the idea of adoption or an orphanage. There was only one other solution. Emma was not particularly happy about this alternative; however, she had come to the realization, after several sleepless nights, that she really had no choice. She turned the problem of the baby over in her mind yet again, wrestling with the advantages and disadvantages of the scheme she had concocted, diverse thoughts racing through her head as swiftly as her needle flew along the hem of the nightgown.
‘Hello! Hello! Anybody home?’
Startled, Emma looked up quickly. The door had opened to admit Blackie O’Neill. It was a brisk March day outside and the wind had whipped the rosiest of tints into his perennially tanned cheeks and ruffled his black hair into a mass of dancing curls. He had a happy-go-lucky air about him and, to Emma, he seemed considerably pleased with himself. He was carrying several packages.
‘Blackie! I didn’t expect you so soon!’ Emma exclaimed in surprise. She put down the sewing and stood up, automatically smoothing her immaculate hair.
Blackie grinned and deposited the parcels on the table. He pulled Emma to him and wrapped his huge arms around her, hugging her tightly, and with a show of great affection. ‘Well, ye be looking the picture of health and beauty after ye confinement,’ he remarked, staring at her appraisingly. Emma forced a smile, attempting to conceal her disquiet, but she said nothing. Seemingly unconscious of her dispirited mood, Blackie went on enthusiastically, ‘I brought a few presents for the bairn. Trifles ye might be liking.’ He indicated the items on the table.
‘Oh, Blackie, you’re too generous! You mustn’t spend all your money on the baby. You bought the shawl only the other week.’
‘That’s what money is for, I am thinking. To be spent.’ He shrugged out of his topcoat and went to hang it on the stand in the doorway. ‘Me and me Uncle Pat are doing better than ever. We got three important jobs this week, and we’ll be having to take on more men. Aye, success is in the air for the O’Neills.’ He turned and winked at Emma. ‘Anyway, I had a bit of a windfall yesterday, so to speak. Backed the winner at Doncaster races. That I did, mavourneen. I had a pound each way, at twenty to one, and made quite a bundle. So, this morning, I thought to meself: Since ye are a flush boyo this week, with a bit of extra money in ye pocket, Blackie O’Neill, ye must be sharing ye good fortune with Emma. And I took meself off at once to Briggate and bought a few things for me darlin’ Tinker Bell.’
‘I’m glad you won, Blackie. But shouldn’t you be saving your money so you can build that grand house you’re always talking about?’ suggested the pragmatic Emma.
Blackie was amused. He shrugged. ‘I’ll be having me Georgian house one day, Emma. And the few shillings I’ve spent today won’t be making all that much difference.’ He lowered his enormous frame and knelt on the floor next to the cot. He peeped at the baby. ‘And isn’t she the most darlin’ thing!’ He smoothed the cot blanket with infinite care. ‘A little cherub, sure and she is.’ The baby moved and opened her eyes, blinking her long silvery lashes. She gurgled and kicked her legs under the coverlet. Blackie’s eyes lit up. ‘Look, mavourneen! I do believe she be recognizing her Uncle Blackie already. Sure and she does!’
‘It seems she does. And she is a sweet baby, Blackie, and good, too. She hasn’t cried at all since I’ve been home from St Mary’s Hospital.’ Emma now glanced at the table. ‘Thank you for the presents, Blackie.’
‘Hush!’ cried Blackie, straightening up. ‘Come on, Emma. Open them. Start with this.’ He handed her the largest package. Emma sat down in the chair, and unwrapped it. ‘Why, Blackie, this is just lovely,’ she exclaimed, lifting out a pink knitted coat trimmed with pink ribbons.
Blackie beamed. ‘Here’s the bonnet and a pair of booties to match,’ he said, offering her another parcel. ‘I hope they will all be fitting her. I had to be guessing the size, since I’m not accustomed to buying things for such a wee mite.’ He looked at Emma anxiously. ‘Do you think they are all right then?’
‘They are perfect. Really perfect. Thank you, Blackie.’
‘Unwrap this. It’s the last,’ he said. ‘Not as practical as the coat and bonnet, I am thinking. But necessary, in a way. Tinker Bell has to have a few toys, ye know, mavourneen.’
Emma pulled the paper off excitedly and held up the fluffy white lamb which sported a large pink bow and a bell at its neck. ‘Oh, isn’t it sweet! And you bought a rattle as well.’ She shook the polished bone ring, which also had a bell attached, and then placed the lamb and the rattle in the cot next to the baby. She stood up and kissed Blackie. ‘Thank you, Blackie. You’re so good to us.’ Emma was touched by his thoughtfulness and the obvious care he had taken in selecting the clothes and the toys.
‘Aay, it’s nothing at all, me love,’ he said, and glanced around. ‘And where might Laura be?’
‘There’s a jumble sale at the Catholic church this afternoon and she’s looking after one of the stalls. She’ll be back in time for tea. You are staying, aren’t you? We expected you to.’
‘Sure and I am.’ He settled himself in the chair opposite Emma and fished around in his pocket for his cigarettes. After he had lit one he said, ‘And when do ye have to go back to the mill, mavourneen?’
Emma did not answer for a moment and then she lifted her head slowly. ‘I can please myself. The foreman told Laura I could have the whole week off, after I came out of hospital. We’re not so busy right now, and it doesn’t matter to the mill either way, since I’m paid by the piece. They don’t have to pay my wage when I’m not working.’
‘Are ye going to take next week off? I think ye should,’