Emma and Her Daughter Read online

  ‘Why would they?’ Emma asked.

  ‘Well, at my age, I mean.’

  Emma didn’t know quite what to say now as ‘how old are you?’ didn’t quite fit the bill. And wasn’t there a saying that you should never ask a lady her age? Or was that just that men shouldn’t ask a lady her age?

  ‘I’ll be forty next birthday.’ Stella helpfully provided the information. ‘But I’m hoping to marry while I’m still in my thirties. Have a baby … sorry, I’m being indiscreet.’

  Emma still hoped in her own heart that she would have a baby of her own, although she realised it would disrupt her life – and Fleur’s – quite considerably if she did. But she would face that when the time came – if it came. Was time running out for her, too, as Stella was implying it might be for her?

  ‘Have you set a date? For the wedding, I mean, not for the making of babies … oh, my, there I go again thinking out loud. I’m sorry, I ought not to have said that.’

  Stella laughed. ‘No, no date set yet for the wedding, and my birthday’s not until February, so plenty of time to make the dress … and anything else.’ Stella grinned at Emma. ‘Virginal white for my wedding dress,’ she said. ‘Very appropriate.’

  Well, there was nothing Emma could bring to that piece of information so she didn’t. She was enjoying Stella’s company enormously – inappropriate information being shared, or not. She hoped she’d made a friend in Stella. She needed her friends. She made a mental note to call on Ruby and ask Tom if he would like to garden for her, and soon – then she would hold, perhaps, an afternoon tea. She could invite Eduardo and Paolo, and now Stella and her fiancé. Her social circle was beginning to widen, wasn’t it? And thank goodness for that.

  ‘I’m hoping to marry at Cockington Church,’ Stella said as Emma carried on making lightning sketches, doing her best to create something suitable for Stella. ‘It’s part of the Mallock estate but open for worship to parishioners. The hospital is in the parish so I’m rather hoping that as I live in nurses’ accommodation I’ll be allowed to marry there. My fiancé … oh …’ Stella picked up the piece of paper that Emma had just discarded. ‘I like that. But I’m not sure about a veil.’

  ‘A cloche close-fitting cap would look better with that design anyway,’ Emma said. ‘Crochet perhaps. I’m useless with any needle that’s not for sewing, but I’m sure we can find someone who could make what you need.’

  ‘I’m sure we can,’ Stella said. ‘Honestly, Emma, this is the best fun I’ve had in a long while. Nursing can be very sad at times.’

  ‘I’m sure it can,’ Emma said, and with her words Beattie Drew and how she’d died holding Emma’s hand in the cottage hospital in Paignton came to mind. The smells, the sounds, the pallor of poor Beattie’s skin. Time then, to change the subject. For Stella as well as for herself. ‘Your fiancé,’ she said. ‘What does he do?’

  ‘He owns a garage. Cars, commercial vans, that sort of thing. And he’s got a motorcycle!’ Stella gave a mock-shudder at the thought, but Emma could only think, how exciting! She had a fancy to sit on the pillion of a motorcycle on a flapper bracket with her hair blowing free.

  ‘A garage, you say. I want to buy a car. I used to drive in Canada. And here, before the war.’

  ‘I’ll write the number down for you before I go,’ Stella said. ‘But back to wedding dresses, yes?’

  ‘Yes,’ Emma said, smiling. Things were moving forward nicely for her again.

  Ruby panicked when Emma went to Shingle Cottage and invited her, Tom, and the children to afternoon tea, telling her there would be other guests.

  ‘No!’ Ruby said. ‘I don’t think Tom could cope with that. Not yet. People ’e doesn’t know. Sometimes the ’orror of what ’e went through comes back to ’im in waves from things people say, or the way someone looks. Only the other day ’e saw a fisherman down on the ’arbour with a burn on ’is arm and Tom simply ran back ’ome.’

  ‘Just your family, then,’ Emma said.

  ‘And Fleur.’

  ‘Yes, I’ll try and make sure that she’s not out and about with Paolo. But if you think it would still be too much for Tom coming over to Romer Lodge then we can postpone to another time …’

  ‘’Ere! You’re not soundin’ so keen now, milady. You sure you didn’t come ’ere just to check up on me? Makin’ sure I’ve cleaned up this place and meself with it?’

  ‘Of course not! How could you think that?’

  Ruby had struck a nerve, hadn’t she? Because Emma had been looking and been heartened to see that everything was very much cleaner, and fresher-smelling than it had been on her previous visits. But no, she hadn’t been checking up on her, not really.

  ‘Because your eyes ’ave been everywhere since you sat in that chair, that’s ’ow.’

  ‘So that’s me told off!’ Emma laughed, doing her best to diffuse the situation. ‘So will you come or not?’

  ‘We will as long as you make that tatty tart you used to make up at Nase Head House. And maybe some chocolate éclairs. ’Ome-made ones, mind, not those shop bought ones you brought last time you visited. Remember we ’ad them just before you were leavin’ for Canada, only you wouldn’t tell me where you were goin’?’

  ‘I remember,’ Emma told her. Everything. I remember everything. How I’d asked Matthew to kiss me before I left only he refused, saying one kiss would never be enough for him. How could I have done that, loving Seth? ‘And it’s tarte Tatin.’

  ‘I know it is. But I loves ’ow you come over all superior correctin’ me. Oh, Em, isn’t it wonderful? We’re almost back to ’ow we were, aren’t we?’

  The tea party for Ruby and her family was a happy, relaxed success, and making éclairs and tarte Tatin seemed to revive Emma’s love of cooking again, something she’d lost ever since Seth had died. The children had been on their best behaviour and said ‘please’ and ‘thank you’ without being prompted – well, most of the time. Tom had been very quiet and Emma had left him to his thoughts, merely making sure he had cake on his plate and tea in his cup at all times. Ruby had been disappointed not to see Fleur but Emma promised that they would meet again soon.

  So, on the strength of that, Emma decided to invite some of her neighbours in for drinks. She didn’t know their names yet but she never would unless she called on them and introduced herself. With a handful of business cards she walked out into Cleveland Road. Croy Lodge, opposite her own home, was very large. She imagined there would be an army of servants inside.

  As well as her business cards, Emma had handwritten some invitations to a drinks party. 6 pm to 7.30 pm in two days’ time.

  She rang the bell of Croy Lodge and almost immediately a young, uniformed servant answered. Emma introduced herself, and the thought that not so many years ago she had been that servant girl made her smile. How far she had come!

  ‘Madam’s not—’ the girl began but a woman, who was most obviously the mistress of the house, came sailing down the corridor, putting a stop to her words.

  ‘I’ll deal with it, Maria,’ the woman said.

  ‘Very well, ma’am.’

  Maria turned and crossed the hallway and disappeared.

  ‘I know you,’ the woman said, and Emma’s heart began to sink. Did she know her as a Jago, wife of a man whose father had died in prison and whose two brothers were hanged? ‘Well, not by name,’ the woman went on, ‘but I’ve seen you. You’ve taken Romer Lodge, haven’t you?’

  ‘Yes. I’m Emma Jago.’ Emma extended a hand.

  ‘Myrna Passmore. And I’ve been dying to meet you. I’ve seen you walking along the promenade into town and I’ve admired your beautiful clothes. Do tell me where you get them? Not around here, that’s for sure. But I’m forgetting my manners. Come in, come in.’

  Myrna Passmore ushered Emma inside and into the front parlour.

  ‘I’ll get Maria to bring coffee or tea or whatever else you would like in a moment, but I am just so glad you called. Now sit down, do.’

  Go
sh, but the words were fairly tumbling out of Myrna Passmore’s mouth, weren’t they? Like a little stream that had burst its banks after heavy rain.

  Emma sat.

  ‘Now. Your wonderful clothes. Do let me in on your secret. And please don’t tell me you go over to Paris to get them or I will go quite, quite green with envy. I can’t leave Mr Passmore, you see.’

  She pointed a finger towards the ceiling indicating that Mr Passmore was up there somewhere and couldn’t be left. Emma would wait to be told why not.

  ‘No, not Paris,’ Emma said. ‘Although the designs are from there. I make all my own clothes and …’ Emma handed over one of her business cards. ‘These are my details should you, or anyone else you know, want to get in touch.’

  ‘I’ll take them all,’ Myrna Passmore said. And then she burst out laughing. ‘But I won’t be handing them out to my friends because I want to keep you a little secret all to myself. Just because I don’t travel very far on account of Mr Passmore doesn’t mean I don’t want to be well-dressed.’

  Emma knew Myrna Passmore would do no such thing because while it was obvious there was something seriously wrong with her husband she was very good-humoured – as her own mama would have said … Mr Passmore has the right wife.

  ‘And I’ve brought this,’ Emma said, handing Myrna Passmore an invitation to her drinks party. ‘A getting to know my neighbours event,’ she explained. ‘Do say you’ll come. If you can leave Mr Passmore for an hour or so.’

  ‘I most certainly can. Maria is wonderful with him in my absence. And it’s been on those little absences that I’ve seen you, and always looking so beautifully dressed.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Emma said. ‘So, you’ll come? To my drinks party?’

  ‘I most certainly will. But only if you promise to put me first on your list of new clients.’

  ‘Promise,’ Emma said.

  Maria was called and instructed to bring sherry with which to toast a new professional liaison. Emma couldn’t help but notice that Mrs Passmore didn’t include ‘friendship’ in the toast but she let it pass because she and Myrna Passmore chatted easily enough together. As Emma was leaving, the good woman gave Emma the names of all the near neighbours so that when Emma knocked on the door with her invitations and her calling cards she would have a name to address.

  Things were getting better and better. She might even have to rope Fleur in to help with the straight sewing if she got lots of new clients.

  ‘And your husband?’ Mrs Groves at Seaspray House asked, Emma’s invitation in her hand. ‘What does he do?’

  Mrs Groves had told her that Myrna Passmore had telephoned to let her know Emma would be calling and Mrs Groves had invited Emma in readily enough.

  They were seated in a large conservatory on the side of the house, the room smelling strongly of geraniums – a rather medicinal scent, a bit like cough mixture, Emma always thought, but they were cheerful enough. And she needed cheer now.

  She took a deep breath. ‘My husband is dead,’ Emma said. ‘He dived into a freezing harbour to rescue a woman. His arm got ripped off in fishing gear. Gangrene set in. Then pneumonia. And he died. Two years ago now.’ Emma spoke the words staccato fashion, as though she was reading from a medical report. Clinical. It was the only way she could say it – and each time she did it didn’t get any easier.

  ‘A hero, then,’ Mrs Groves said, and her previous smile of welcome slid a little. ‘But a dead one. And you’re a widow?’

  Mrs Groves glanced at Emma’s ring finger, on which sat the beautiful diamond ring Seth had had made for her – an exact copy of her mama’s that had been lost, either stolen or taken by the sea when her mama had drowned.

  ‘I am. I have a daughter. Fleur. She’ll be sixteen years old in a couple of week’s time.’

  ‘I see,’ Mrs Groves said. ‘And I’m sure you’ll understand that as you are without a husband it won’t be possible for me and Mr Groves to accept your invitation.’

  I see perfectly well. You are terrified that I will get my claws into your husband seeing as I have no husband of my own to stop me. Or that Fleur will.

  But Emma could only feel sadness for Mr Groves who was married to such a sour-faced woman.

  ‘That’s your decision,’ Emma said. She stood up to leave.

  ‘But I’d like to avail myself of your sewing skills. Mrs Passmore has been singing your praises and—’

  ‘And I’m afraid my client list is full, Mrs Groves. Good afternoon.’

  Hmm, Emma thought, as she walked back to Romer Lodge. Making friends – and customers – of her neighbours wasn’t going to be as easy as she’d thought it would be.

  But she wasn’t beaten yet.

  Chapter Eight

  EARLY JULY 1927

  Emma had at last got around to making herself a dress to go to the theatre in Palace Avenue with Eduardo; a simple sheath in the palest dog-rose pink with fringing just a few shades darker in diagonal bands from shoulder to hem. It barely covered her knees – the shortest thing she’d ever worn. It was last year’s style, copied from an illustration in Vogue magazine, but Emma didn’t think anyone in the small, provincial theatre would notice. Not that it would bother her much if they did. She’d bought a shawl the colour of rosehips with white peonies embroidered on it from Rossiter’s department store to wear around her shoulders.

  ‘What do you think?’ she asked Fleur as she twirled round in front of the cheval glass in her room.

  ‘It looks like something you should be dancing in, not wearing in the dark in a theatre.’

  ‘Oh,’ Emma said, the wind taken out of her sails completely by Fleur’s remark although there’d been no spite in her voice as she said it. She had, Emma thought, sounded sad if anything.

  ‘Like you should have a cigarette in a holder held at an affected angle like the woman in the illustration in the magazine you copied it from.’

  ‘Oh,’ Emma said again.

  Fleur had been rather quiet lately – more serious, perhaps, as though she was thinking deeply about something she didn’t want to talk to Emma about. Trying to put her finger on it now as they got ready to go out with Eduardo and Paolo, Emma realised the change in Fleur had happened round about the time Stella Martin had called about her wedding dress. Emma had ordered the fabric Stella had picked out from the samples from Beare’s the haberdasher’s, and bought the threads to sew it with. On a whim, she also bought some crystals to sew onto it discreetly. If the wedding was to be a winter wedding then the dress would need something with which to catch what little light there was at that time of year.

  ‘And it shows your knees,’ Fleur said.

  ‘I know. I think I’ve got rather nice knees, why not show them off?’

  Emma slid a gold bangle up her arm, past her elbow, and gently pushed it into the softer flesh of her upper arm.

  ‘And you definitely need a cigarette with that look,’ Fleur said, tapping the bangle on Emma’s arm with a forefinger.

  ‘I don’t think so,’ Emma said.

  She wrinkled her nose because suddenly the smell of the strong cigarettes Eduardo smoked seemed to be in her nostrils. The smoke made her eyes water sometimes especially if they were in a small space. She imagined lots of people in the theatre would smoke in the interval, if not during the performance too. That thought didn’t cheer her much, although until the start of this rather stilted conversation with Fleur she’d been looking forward to going to the theatre.

  ‘A man offered me a cigarette on the pier,’ Fleur said.

  ‘And did you take it?’

  ‘No!’ Fleur sounded angry now. ‘Don’t you care that a strange man offered me a cigarette?’

  Gosh but Fleur’s moods were all over the place, weren’t they? Was it the time of the month for her? Was that what it was? And then a chill seemed to freeze Emma’s body – has her monthly not arrived when it should have done? Was she pregnant? By Paolo, or… or the man who offered her a cigarette?

  ‘You did
n’t say he was strange. Was he drunk? In the middle of the day?’

  ‘No. Not drunk. He did smell a bit of drink, though. He was rather good-looking, actually. But ancient. He must have been, oh, about forty or something. He pointed out that women smoked and that they were smart if they did. There was a woman on the pier with a cigarette in her hand but I didn’t see her put it to her lips. He was a bit persistent, this man. He spoke funny, too.’

  ‘Funny?’

  ‘He had an accent I couldn’t place. American perhaps but that maybe he’d spoken another language, like Russian or something, before he learned English.’

  A tear slid down Fleur’s cheek, and Emma shuddered – what else was Fleur about to reveal? Had she refused the cigarette but accepted something else?

  ‘Sit down,’ Emma said. ‘On the edge of my bed. Is there anything else you want to tell me?’

  Fleur sat, tucking her hands under her thighs, palms down on the cover, her chin practically on her chest. ‘But we’ll be late,’ she muttered. ‘Paolo said—’

  ‘Paolo and his father will wait for us. It won’t matter if we miss a little bit at the beginning.’

  ‘It’s an Agatha Christie, Ma! If you miss one sentence you might as well not bother. Although why Paolo and his pa wanted to go to see it I don’t know because they’re not going to understand everything, are they?’

  No, they’re not, Emma thought, admiring Fleur’s reasoning.

  ‘Possibly not but it will be fun to watch all the same. If we miss something we’ll catch up easily, I’m sure. Now what’s wrong?’ Emma sat down beside Fleur and slid an arm around her back, placing a hand on her daughter’s shoulder. ‘You look gorgeous in that dress, by the way. Red really suits your colouring.’

  Emma had made Fleur a dropped-waist dress in pillar-box red jersey with a white Peter Pan collar, and white cuffs on the elbow-length sleeves. She’d enthused about it excitedly when Emma had shown her what she intended to make. But now Fleur looked as though she was about to go to the gallows, poor girl.

  ‘But Pa’s not going to see me in it, is he?’