A Woman of Substance. Barbara Taylor Bradford
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trio in their drab and shabby clothes, which were also patched and darned. But these clothes were scrupulously clean and neat, as they were themselves with their scrubbed faces and carefully combed hair. And each child, as disparate as they were in appearance, had a sort of refinement that stood out so strikingly that those poor, threadbare garments became insignificant. They had a curious dignity as they stood there so solemn-faced and quiet. The children parted and stepped back to make way for Jack as he bounded into the room, bristling with energy, a cheerful smile carefully arranged on his face.
Elizabeth lay back against the mound of pillows, pale and piteously depleted, but the feverish glaze on her face had vanished and she appeared more tranquil. Emma had washed her face and brushed her hair, and the blue shawl she had wrapped around her mother’s shoulders intensified the blueness of Elizabeth’s uncommonly lovely eyes; her hair fanned out across the pillows like skeins of soft spun silk. Not a spot of colour stained the whiteness of her face and to Jack, in the candlelight, it was like the carved ivory he had seen in Africa, the contours and planes sharp and finely chiselled, devoid of any crudity of form. She had the appearance of a small and very delicate figurine. Her face lit up when she saw Jack. She stretched out her thin arms weakly towards him and when he reached the bed he pulled her to him almost fiercely, holding her feeble body against his own strong virile one as if to never let her go.
‘Thee looks worlds better, Elizabeth luv,’ he said in a voice so gentle it seemed to stroke the air delicately. And it was hardly recognizable as his own.
‘I am, John,’ she asserted bravely. ‘I’ll be up tonight when yer gets home, and I’ll have a good sheep’s-head broth boiling for yer, luv, and dumplings, too, and fresh bread cakes.’
He released her tenderly and placed her back on the pillows, and as he gazed at that pitifully wasted face he did not see it as it truly was at all. He saw only the beautiful girl he had known all of his life. She looked at him with such trust and adoration his heart clenched with sorrow and there was nothing he could do to save her. And that strange impulse came over him again, an impulse which was occurring with increasing frequency and compelling urgency, in reality a compulsion to pick her up bodily in his arms and take her out of this mean room and run with her to the top of the moors, which she longed for always. There on the high fells the air was pure and bracing and the sky was a vast reflection of her eyes, and he felt in some inexplicable and mysterious way that on that high ground this disease would be blown out of her, that she would be miraculously revived and filled with life.
But the lavender tints and pale vaporous mists of the long summer days were now swept away by northern gales. If only it was summer he would take her up there, the Top of the World she called it, and he would lay her down against a knoll of heather amongst green ferns and tender young bilberry leaves, and they would sit together in contentment in the shelter of Ramsden Crags, warmed by the sun, alone except for the linnets and larks fluttering by in the hazy golden light. It was not possible. The earth was hard with black February frost and the sweeping moorland was savage and desolate under a sky bleak and rain-filled.
‘John luv, did yer hear what I said? I’ll be up tonight and we can all have our suppers together, in front of the fire, like we used ter afore I was sick.’ There was a new vividness in Elizabeth’s voice, an excitement unquestionably created by Jack’s presence.
‘Thee mustn’t get out of bed, luv,’ he cautioned hoarsely. ‘Doctor says thee must have complete rest, Elizabeth. Our Lily will come in later and tend to thee, and make the supper for us. Now thee must promise me thee won’t do owt foolish, lass. Now promise me.’
‘Oh, yer do fret so, John Harte. But I promise, if that’s what pleases yer. I’ll stay abed.’
He leaned forward so that only she could hear. ‘I love thee, Elizabeth, I do that,’ he whispered.
She looked deeply into his eyes and she saw that love so clearly reflected, changeless and everlasting, and she said, ‘I love thee, too, John, till the day I die and even after that.’
He kissed her quickly, hardly daring to look at her again, and as he got up off the bed his movements were jerky and disjointed, almost as if he had relinquished command of his great body. He crossed the bedroom in three quick strides. ‘Come on, Winston, kiss thee mam and let’s be off. We’re running late, lad,’ he called brusquely.
Winston and Frank each kissed their mother and moved away from the bed to the door with the utmost quiet. Winston had not addressed a remark to Emma since his teasing in the kitchen earlier, and now he gave her one of his most charming and breezy smiles, and said from the top of the stairs. ‘See yer Saturday, Emma. Ta’rar, luv.’
She waved and smiled. ‘Ta’rar, Winston,’ adding as an afterthought, ‘Frank, yer’d best finish getting ready for work. I’ll be down right sharpish and we can leave together.’ Frank nodded, his little head bobbing up and down, his pale face serious. ‘Yes, Emma,’ he cried, and clattered noisily down the steps after Winston.
Emma sat down on the edge of the bed. ‘Do yer need owt afore I go, Mam?’
Elizabeth shook her head. ‘The tea was good, luv. It’s all I need till yer Aunt Lily comes, and I’m not hungry.’
She’s never hungry. How will she ever be well if she never eats? Emma asked herself, and said with a cheerfulness she did not feel, ‘All right, Mam, but yer must eat the food me Aunt Lily brings when she comes. Yer must keep up yer strength.’
Elizabeth smiled faintly. ‘I will, luv.’
‘Shall I blow out the candle?’ Emma asked, preparing to leave.
Elizabeth looked lovingly at the girl. ‘Aye, yer can when yer go. I’ll rest a while. Yer a good lass, Emma. I don’t know what I’d do without yer. Now get yerself off ter the Hall. I don’t want yer ter be late, when Mrs Turner let yer come home ter see me in the middle of the week. And be a good lass. Mrs Fairley’s a real lady, that she is.’
‘Yes, Mam,’ Emma whispered, blinking back the tears. She kissed her mother with great tenderness and rearranged the bedclothes, patting the pillows and straightening the sheet and quilt with her usual efficiency. As she pulled the bedclothes up around Elizabeth she said, ‘I’ll try and find a sprig of heather on me way home on Saturday, Mam. Perhaps there’s a bit the frost didn’t get, under the crags.’
Jack and Winston had gone to the brickyard and Frank was alone in the kitchen, which was now dimly lit, for Jack had turned out the paraffin lamp as he always did when he left for work. The only illumination came from a candle on the table and the fire, which occasionally flared and momentarily filled the room with a sudden lambent light. Dusky shadows lurked eerily on the perimeters of the kitchen and the air was hushed, except for the intermittent crackling of the logs, which hissed and spurted from time to time.
Frank sat in one of the high-backed chairs by the fireside and the chair dwarfed him, so enormous was it, and he appeared much smaller and more fragile than he actually was. The boy was smallboned and delicate, yet for all that he was surprisingly wiry and tough, like a little terrier.
This morning he seemed forlorn in his grey work shirt and baggy trousers, hand-me-downs from Winston, and his legs in their carefully darned grey socks, dangling over the edge of the chair, looked pathetic and far too weak to lift the great boots, which were too large and ugly and had also once belonged to Winston. But in reality, and in spite of his appearance, there was nothing forlorn about Frank Harte, for he occupied an inner world so filled with beautiful images and soaring dreams and expectations, it made his day-to-day existence seem totally inconsequential. And this perfect world protected him from the harshness of their poverty-stricken life, nourished him so completely he was, for the most part, quite oblivious to the deprivations and spartan conditions in which they lived.
Essentially Frank was a happy little boy, content to retreat into his imagination, one that was vivid and fertile, and the only time he had been truly dismayed and saddened was when he had left