lackie and Emma sat on the tram-car going to Armley. It was a bitter-cold Sunday afternoon early in January of 1906. Emma was huddled in the corner of her seat, her altogether beautiful profile turned to him in chilly silence.

Jesus, Mary, and Joseph! Blackie thought in exasperation. She’s so stubborn at times she’s positively rigid. He glanced at her out of the corner of his eye and turned away, further dismayed by the obdurate look on her face. He knew better than to utter one word. She had been obstinate in her refusal to take this trip from the first day he had mentioned it two weeks ago. It had taken all of his powers of persuasion and his smooth Irish tongue to get her to agree, and then her acquiescence had been grudging. Sometimes he did not understand Emma at all, and he had long realized that she was an extremely complex young woman with the most pertinacious will it had ever been his misfortune to encounter. On the other hand, he had to acknowledge that she was amazingly intelligent, even brilliant, and gifted in so many ways. And in most instances she was flexible and open to suggestions, thank the Almighty Lord.

Blackie peered at her again. Surprisingly, that stern expression did nothing to mar her beauty. In fact, it seemed to give her a curiously imperious air that was arresting. Today her hair was drawn back and plaited, the plaits forming loops that hung low on her neck, anchored by a large black taffeta bow in the nape. She wore the green-and-black tartan tam-o’-shanter and the matching scarf he had given her for Christmas; the tam-o’-shanter was perched at a jaunty angle, the long scarf wound around her neck and thrown casually over the shoulders of her black wool coat. Her hands, as always clinging tightly to the black reticule, were encased in bottle-green mittens knitted for her by the devoted Rosie. The dark green tones of the scarf and hat suited her admirably and brought out the greenness of her incredible eyes and the alabaster pallor of her flawless complexion. There was no doubt about it. Emma, in these last months of her pregnancy, looked extraordinarily healthy and well cared for, and as immaculately groomed as always.

The tram rumbled out of the city centre, heading for Whin-gate Junction in Armley, a picturesque village perched on a hill, about half an hour’s ride away. Blackie sat lost in contemplation, patiently waiting for Emma’s mood to change, praying that it would do so before they reached their destination. He would be glad when the baby was born and she could visit Fairley. Although she accepted her pregnancy philosophically and with little visible show of anxiety, Blackie knew she worried excessively about her father and Frank. She had even pressed him into service with the mailing of those allimportant le tters to her dad, badgering him to seek out any of his friends, who might be going to London. She was determined to keep up the pretence that she was travelling with her non-existent Mrs John Smith, which readily explained her absence from Bradford. As luck would have it, he had been able to oblige her in November and December, when some of his mates from the pub were going south to find work on London’s East End docks. They had willingly agreed to post Emma’s letters to her father, without asking any embarrassing questions. Blackie had commented to Emma, though. ‘Ye dad will be wondering why ye don’t give him an address, so he’s can write to ye,’ he had pointed out. ‘No, he won’t,’ Emma had asserted sharply. ‘In the November letter I told him I was going to Paris with my lady, and in the December letter I told him I was accompanying her to Italy. As long as he hears from me, that’s all that matters.’ Blackie eyed her, utterly astonished at the machinations of her mind. ‘It seems ye’ve thought of everything,’ he said dryly. To this remark she had not deigned to respond and the conversation had been terminated.

Blackie stole another look at her, moved closer, and put his arm around her shoulders, easing himself up to her on the seat. ‘I hope ye’ll consider moving to Armley,’ he said carefully, steeling himself for her strong reaction, which, surprisingly, was not forthcoming. She remained perfectly still, her face staring ahead.

Encouraged, Blackie went on, ‘Ye’ll be happier living with Laura Spencer. Sure and ye will, mavourneen. Now that her widowed mother is dead she is looking for a paying guest, someone to share the expense of the house with her. A nice house it is, too. Small, of course, but cosy and well set up. Her late father was a foreman at the printing works, and her mother was a weaver. They had a bit of money and a decent going-on. It shows in the house, the furnishings and all, and Laura keeps it beautifully.’ He paused and searched her face, proceeding in a cheery tone, ‘Ye’ll be real comfortable there. And as I told ye afore, Laura can get ye a job at Thompson’s mill in Armley, where she works. I don’t know why ye are being so stubborn about it, Emma.’

She swung her head unexpectedly and looked at him intensely, her green eyes flashing. ‘Because I don’t like being uprooted! I’ve just learned the tailoring trade and now you want me to leave Kallinski’s and start working at the mill, learning to weave. It doesn’t make sense, Blackie. And besides, I like it at Mrs Daniel’s. She is very kindly these days and I do have the use of her kitchen.’

Blackie groaned. ‘But, Emma, ye’ll be having a whole house to share with Laura. Not only that, she lives just ten minutes away from Thompson’s mill. At present ye spend three quarters of an hour walking to Kallinski’s in the morning and the same amount of time to be getting home at night. It’s a lot of walking in this raw weather. Even the Kallinskis see the sense of what I be suggesting, and David told me the other day that they will be happy to take ye back, after the bairn is born. So what do you have to lose? Nothing, I am thinking.’ He sighed wearily. ‘Ye are a wilful, headstrong girl, Emma, and all I am wanting is what’s best for ye.’

Emma recognized the practicality of what he was suggesting, but for once in her life she was indecisive. ‘I just don’t know—’

Blackie now saw that wavering and he grabbed the opportunity, saying in a positive tone, ‘Look, all I be asking is that ye consider it carefully, and that ye weigh all the odds before ye make a hasty decision not to move in with Laura.’ He took hold of her sturdy hand and squeezed it. ‘And please be nice with Laura. She’s a good friend and I don’t want ye to be acting rude or stuck-up.’

Emma flushed and glared at him. ‘Rude! I’m never rude to anyone! You know better than that. And I’m not stuck-up either, Blackie O’Neill.’

He realized his mistake too late and, hoping to rectify it, Blackie said in the suavest of voices, ‘I know ye don’t mean to be snooty, Emma, me darlin’. But sometimes—well, sometimes ye do give the impression of being—let’s say, a bit hoitytoity.’

‘I do?’ she said wonderingly, frowning and biting her lip. Emma was flabbergasted at this statement, for she truly did not know she could be formidable at times. Invariably her distant manner was engendered by her total preoccupation with her problems and her numerous plans, and nothing else. She remained silent, ruminating on what he had said, feeling mortified.

Sensing that she might be hurt, Blackie remarked gently, ‘Ye’ll be liking Laura. She’s a sweet girl, that she is indeed. And I know she will be liking ye, Emma. Sure and she will, mavourneen.’

‘I’m not so sure about that, in view of what you’ve just said,’ Emma countered.

Blackie laughed a little shamefacedly. ‘Now let’s be forgetting that. All ye have to be doing is exercise a bit of that remarkable charm ye be possessing in such abundance, and everything will be fine.’ He squeezed her hand again and went on, ‘Armley is a grand little spot and very safe. ‘Tis especially pretty in summer when the trees and flowers are blooming. There’s Armley Park where the brass band plays every Sunday and other pleasant lanes and thoroughfares where ye can be taking a stroll. Also, St Mary’s Hospital is nearby, and ye could be having the bairn there, when ye time comes. And there are plenty of shops, so ye won’t be having to venture into Leeds for owt. Why, ye have everything ye be needing in Armley.’

Emma looked at him alertly. ‘Shops,’ she said thoughtfully. ‘But I thought Armley was a tiny village. There can’t be that many shops, Blackie.’

‘Oh, aye, there are, mavourneen. Ye see, Armley is spread out, so to speak. It be quite large really. There are a lot of fine homes. Mansions, in fact, where the posh folk live. Millowners and the like. There are a number of good shops in Town Street catering to the Quality trade. I’ve seen ‘em, when I’ve been visiting Laura afore. Ye’ll have a chance to look at ‘em yeself, when we walk down the main street to get to Laura’s house.’

‘What sort of shops?’ Emma pressed, her eyes turned on him with fierce interest.

Aware that he had now captured her complete attention and observing the change in her attitude, Blackie spoke excitedly, hoping to sway her further. ‘Well, let me be thinking. There be grocers, butchers, and greengrocers, all on Town Street, along with a pork butcher’s shop, an off-licence, a fishmonger’s, Keene’s dairy, a chemist, and a newsagent. I’ve also noticed a draper’s, a haberdasher’s, a shoe store, and a fine ladies’ dress establishment as well, mavourneen. It is quite an active thoroughfare, almost as busy as Briggate, indeed it is. Why, I think there are shops selling practically everything, Emma.’

Emma had listened carefully and she was rapidly reversing her preconceived ideas about sharing Laura Spencer’s house. ‘Tell me more about the village,’ she said. ‘For instance, how big is it? How many people live there?’

‘Ah, Emma, me love, now ye have me. I must be confessing I don’t know its exact size, or how many people reside in Armley. But it must be a goodly number, I am thinking, for the shops do a brisk business. Then again, there are several churches and chapels and quite a few schools, so there must be plenty of folk in the vicinity. Yes, it is a thriving place, sure and it is. Laura told me there is a public library and Liberal, Conservative, and Workingmen’s clubs. Why, there is even a jail in Armley. Horrible dungeon of a place, it is, by the looks of it.’ Blackie winked at her. ‘There are lots of pubs, too. I meself know at least six personally.’

Emma laughed for the first time since they had set out. ‘You would know that.’

‘And what’s wrong with a young spalpeen liking a pint of bitter now and then and an occasional noggin of good Irish?’ Blackie asked jestingly, adopting an injured air. Then he tugged on her arm urgently. ‘Come on, mavourneen! Here we are, ye can be seeing Armley for yeself.’

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.’

From her vantage point near the fireplace, Emma could see Laura in the small kitchen that adjoined the parlour. She was wearing a pale blue woollen dress with a full skirt, long sleeves, and a large white Quaker collar, and although the dress was a little worn and darned in places, its simplicity and pristine colours added to the impression of immaculateness and virtue she conveyed. She’s beautiful, Emma thought, intrigued by the tall, slender girl who appeared to be surrounded by an aura of spirituality.

Laura Spencer’s features were so classically drawn, so fragile, and the bones were so fine, her face seemed attenuated at times. There were those, who were undiscerning, who considered her plain and faded and they would not have agreed with Emma at all. But Emma saw the Dresden china-like delicacy of the features that contributed so much to her exquisiteness, saw the golden lights in her honey-coloured hair that gave it a shimmering iridescence, saw the tenderness and wisdom that filled the enormous hazel eyes with a radiant luminosity. And she recognized Laura’s loveliness for what it truly was—an outward reflection of purity.

Emma was not wrong in these assessments. There was indeed something special about Laura Spencer. Very simply, she refused to countenance evil. Laura was a Roman Catholic and unwavering in her faith; her religion, which she never discussed or inflicted on her friends, was the mainspring of her life. To Laura, God was neither nebulous nor remote. His presence was constant, eternal and everlasting.

Sitting there in that cosy parlour, listening to Laura’s light voice echoing out from the kitchen, Emma was not yet entirely aware of all of this. But somehow, in some curious fashion, Laura’s inner grace had mysteriously communicated itself to her, and she was experiencing a sense of peace so profound she was startled. Emma continued to gaze at Laura and she thought: I want her to be my friend. I want her to like me. I want to share this house with her.

‘Ye are very quiet, mavourneen,’ Blackie said. ‘That’s a bit unusual for ye, I am thinking. Ye are generally such a chatterbox.’

Emma jumped. He had startled her. ‘I was just thinking,’ she responded. Blackie smiled and puffed on his pipe. Emma was just as captivated by Laura as he had anticipated, and he was delighted.

‘Could you bring the kettle into the kitchen, please, Blackie,’ Laura called, ‘so I can mash the tea.’

‘Sure and I can, mavourneen,’ he exclaimed. He lifted the steaming copper kettle off the hob and strode across the room, a towering bulk in that small space.

‘Can I do anything?’ Emma inquired eagerly, also rising.

Laura looked around the kitchen door. ‘No, thank you, Emma. It’s all ready now.’ Within seconds she came into the parlour carrying a large tray containing plates of food and Blackie followed with the teapot.

As she sat down, Emma thought how nicely Laura had arranged the table. ‘You are very artistic, Laura. The table looks lovely,’ Emma volunteered. She smiled at Laura, who seemed pleased at this shyly offered compliment.

‘Aye, ‘tis a feast fit for kings, sure and it is,’ Blackie said, also regarding the table. ‘But ye shouldn’t have made such a spread or gone to all this trouble, Laura. Ye have enough to do with all ye church work and charities.’

‘It was no bother, Blackie. You know I like cooking. And I enjoy having visitors. Now, come along. Help yourselves. You must both be hungry after that chilly trip from Leeds. I’m sure you’ve worked up an appetite, Blackie.’

‘Aye, I have that,’ he responded, and helped himself to a sandwich. Something of Blackie’s natural exuberance flowed to the surface during the tea and he kept the girls giggling at his stories, as was his artful way when he wanted to be entertaining. The actor in him could never be suppressed for long, and he became so volatile neither Emma nor Laura could get a word in edgewise. Laura, however, did respond swiftly to some of his more outrageous pronouncements, and Emma realized this gentle girl was blessed with a sense of humour in spite of her basic seriousness, and that mild manner belied a stringent wit.

For her part, Laura Spencer was impressed with Emma. She had been initially startled by her striking beauty, but while she had prepared the tea, Laura had observed her discreetly, and she had quickly become aware of the younger girl’s pleasant yet dignified manner. She had also detected the intelligence in those matchless green eyes and the refinement in the oval face. Blackie had told her that Emma lived in a small uncomfortable attic and spent hours walking to and from work. He was worried about her health. And no wonder, Laura thought. She needs a little mothering at a time like this: seven months pregnant and utterly alone. She was filled with a rush of sisterly warmth for Emma.

As the tea progressed, Blackie pondered about the two girls who flanked him at the tea table. He loved them both, albeit in wholly different ways, and he was gratified that they had taken a liking to each other. He had known they would, even though they were exact opposites physically, and in temperament. He stole a look at Laura, who was wiping her vulnerable mouth with her serviette. There she was, all porcelain fragility, retiring, spiritual Laura, who was utterly selfless in so many ways. He glanced at Emma out of the corner of his eye. Next to Laura’s gentle loveliness, Emma’s beauty seemed fierce and wild; there was something frightening about her, and he had long suspected she might turn out to be ruthless and expedient, if that was ever necessary. And yet, in spite of their intrinsic difference, they shared several common traits—integrity, courage, and compassion. Perhaps those things will bind them in friendship, he thought. Also, even though Laura, at twenty-one, was only a few years older than Emma, Blackie believed she would look after her in an affectionate and motherly way. Likewise, he sensed that Emma’s spirited and vivacious presence in the house would help to assuage the loneliness Laura had felt since her mother’s death four months ago. He hoped so.

Emma was talking enthusiastically to Laura about the tailoring trade and Kallinski’s workshop, and her vibrant voice caught his attention. Blackie turned to look at Emma. In the roseate glow of the parlour her animated face blazed with life. Her looks would blind any man, he said to himself. Then he wondered, as he had so often lately, who it was she had blinded seven or eight months ago. He still had not dared to ask her who the father of her child really was. He crushed down on that disturbing thought and turned his attention to the matter at hand—how to broach the subject of Emma moving in with Laura, and going to work at Thompson’s mill.

Almost as if she had read his mind, he heard Laura say, ‘You sound as if you really love the tailoring trade, Emma. And you’ve certainly mastered it quickly, from what I hear. I’m sure you would have no trouble learning to weave—’ Laura paused, as always not wanting to appear presumptuous or forward.

‘Is weaving very difficult?’ Emma asked cautiously.

‘No, not really. Not when you’ve got the hang of it and understand the process. I don’t think you would find it hard, Emma. Honestly I don’t.’

Emma glanced swiftly at Blackie and then turned back to Laura and said, ‘Can you get me a job at Thompson’s? Are you sure?’

‘Yes, I am positive!’ Laura exclaimed. ‘I spoke to the foreman the other day, and you can start any time you want. They are looking for new girls to train. You’d go on the looms right away, as a learner, of course.’

Emma pondered this for a split second and made up her mind. She plunged right in. ‘Would you be willing to let me share the house with you, Laura? I won’t be any trouble and I’ll pay my way.’ Her gaze did not stray from Laura.

Laura’s angelic face broke into a delighted smile and her fine hazel eyes lit up. ‘Of course, Emma. I would love to have you. Anyway, I can’t really afford to keep this house on alone, but I am reluctant to give it up. I’ve lived here most of my life. Apart from that, you would be wonderful company for me. I’ve been looking for someone congenial and pleasant like you.’ She leaned forward and squeezed Emma’s arm affectionately, and in a reassuring way. ‘And also, I think you would be better off here with me, what with the baby due in two months. I can look after you, Emma. And I know Blackie agrees—’

‘I do that!’ interjected Blackie, pleased with the turn of events.

‘Do let me show you the rest of the house, and the room you would have, Emma,’ Laura suggested. She led the way up the steep and narrow staircase. Laura opened a door on the landing. ‘This would be yours, Emma,’ she announced with a bright smile. She swept in ahead of them and lighted a candle on the dresser.

‘Now, isn’t this nice and comfy!’ Blackie stated, hovering in the doorway. He pushed Emma forward.

Emma looked back at him. ‘Yes, it is,’ she said. Taking up most of the space was a large brass bed covered with a patchwork quilt. The walls were white, and there was even a clipped rug on the floor by the bed.

‘This was my parents’ room,’ Laura said. She then added, rather shyly, ‘I thought you would like it, Emma. Since it’s large, and has a double bed, your husband could stay here when he’s home on leave.’ Emma opened her mouth and instantly shut it when she saw Blackie’s face.

Blackie said, ‘Er—er—well, he’s not due to come home for a long while yet. A very long while. He’s at sea. So, we don’t have to be worrying about that!’ He looked around, desperately wondering how to change the subject, and continued rapidly, in a rush of words, ‘Now, Emma, do ye not see that space over there by the window? Between the wardrobe and the washstand? Ye could be fixing up a sewing table there and making the dresses for the ladies, like ye said ye wanted to. Laura wouldn’t be minding. Would ye, Laura, me love?’ He hoped he had managed to avert an awkward discussion about that damned imaginary husband of Emma’s.

‘No, not at all. It won’t disturb me.’ Laura glanced at Emma, who was surveying the room, a crease still puckering her smooth brow. Laura thought with dismay: Oh, dear. She doesn’t like the house. But being unwilling to influence Emma in any way, she was prompted to say, ‘It’s a bit cold up here. Shall we go downstairs? You can let me know later, Emma. You don’t have to make up your mind now.’

Emma saw the flicker of consternation on Laura’s face and she grasped her arm. ‘I like the room! Really I do! I would love to share the house with you. That is, if I can afford it, Laura.’

The three of them trooped back to the parlour. Blackie threw logs on to the fire and Laura got out her housekeeping accounts book. She joined Blackie and Emma in front of the hearth. ‘The rent is four shillings a week, so your half would be two shillings, Emma. Then there is the cost of the logs and the coal in winter and the paraffin for the lamps. If you could split that with me I would be most grateful. Altogether, it will come to about five shillings a week in winter. But it will be less in summer.’

‘Five shillings!’ Emma exclaimed.

Laura stared at her, a worried expression flooding her eyes again. ‘Oh, dear. Is that too much? Perhaps I can—’

‘No, it’s not too much,’ Emma interrupted. ‘I expected it to be more. It’s certainly very fair. Why, I pay three shillings a week for the attic at Mrs Daniel’s.’

Laura looked at Emma askance, and Blackie roared, ‘I always told ye that bloody woman was robbing ye blind, and ye wouldn’t pay no mind to me! Ah, Emma! Ye should have moved in with Laura weeks ago, like I was begging ye to.’

‘Hush, Blackie. Don’t get so excited,’ Laura said lightly but with firmness. She handed the housekeeping book to Emma. ‘You can see all the figures for yourself. I want you to know what everything costs.’

Emma did not want to take the book, but Laura forced it on her. She gave it the most cursory of glances, for she knew this girl would not attempt to make money out of her. After a moment she handed it back. ‘Laura, please! I don’t have to go through all these figures. I know you are scrupulous. In fact, maybe you are not charging me enough. I don’t want you to be out of pocket.’

Laura said, ‘Yes, it is enough. Really it is.’ She returned the accounts book to the sideboard drawer and went on, ‘Did Blackie tell you that you’re not paid for the first month, while you are learning to weave?’ Emma nodded. Laura cleared her throat and looked at Emma carefully, then she said, ‘Well, for that first month you don’t have to pay me anything.’

‘No, I can’t do that. It wouldn’t be right,’ Emma cried.

Laura was adamant. ‘I will not take money from you when you’re not earning, Emma.’ The older girl saw the immense pride flaring on Emma’s face, and, understanding that she did not want to accept charity, and not wishing to embarrass her further, Laura remarked quietly, ‘Just give me the two shillings for the rent. That’s a happy medium.’ Emma reluctantly agreed, so as not to offend Laura, although she was determined to pay her the whole of the five shillings. She would take it out of her savings.

‘It’s all settled, then. Emma will move in next Saturday. I shall bring her meself, sure and I will!’ declared Blackie, now taking charge. He beamed at them both. ‘Ye see, I was right all along. I knew it would work out and that ye would be liking each other.’

Emma smiled but made no comment. She was happy she had made the decision to move to Armley, to share Laura Spencer’s house. A strange pervading sense of peace settled over her again, and she relaxed in the chair, feeling suddenly at ease and more sure of the future than she had been for a long time. Everything was going to be all right. She knew that now. Emma was not aware of it at that moment, but she was never to forget that first encounter with Laura Spencer as long as she lived. Over the years she grew to realize that Laura was the only truly good person she had ever known, and she loved her deeply.

The following Friday Emma said a sad farewell to her fellow workers at the tailoring shop, who were sorry to see her leave, and to all of the Kallinskis, with whom she had Sabbath dinner at Janessa’s insistence. After dinner Janessa took Emma to one side. ‘I want you to promise me that you will come to me if you need anything in the next few months,’ she said. ‘Armley is not so far away and I can soon be there.’

‘Oh, Mrs Kallinski, that’s lovely of you. Thank you. I promise I will.’

It was a tearful parting and only David seemed undismayed. He knew their paths would cross again. He intended to make sure of that. Emma gave him her address in Armley and he extracted a faithful promise from her to write as soon as she was settled. Even Mrs Daniel had tears in her eyes when Emma left and she, too, asked her to stay in touch.

On Monday morning Laura took her to Thompson’s mill. From the moment she entered it, Emma hated that place as fiercely as she had loved Abraham Kallinski’s little factory. No camaraderie here. No jokes and laughter. Rigid discipline reigned, and the gaffers were harsh and demanding as they walked up and down between the looms. Emma instantly loathed the stench of the oily raw wool and was deafened by the unceasing rattling of the shuttles; on her third day there she was totally unnerved when she witnessed a shuttle fly off and strike a girl in the face, scarring her for life, an accident that was not unusual.

Laura was a good teacher, patient and explicit in her instructions; nevertheless, Emma found the weaving process difficult and she was terrified of getting a ‘trap’, which occurred when a hundred or so threads broke on the loom. A ‘trap’ took hours to repair. These were precious hours lost, and the weaver had to work furiously to make up the lost time. But Emma was careful and she never did have a ‘trap’ as long as she worked at the mill.

In her diligent way she persevered, for she was determined that nothing was going to get the better of her; she also knew she had no alternative but to prove herself a competent weaver in order to earn a living. With her singlemindedness, her fast mind and nimble fingers, she mastered the craft of weaving within the month, as Laura had predicted she would. Her self-confidence grew as her expertise increased, yet she still disliked working in that cheerless and rigidly controlled environment.

She and Laura started at six o’clock in the morning and finished at six at night, interminable and dreary days to Emma. As the weeks dragged on she grew heavier with child and increasingly weary and exhausted. To her dismay, her legs continually swelled up from standing long hours at the loom, and she often thought that the baby would be born right there at her feet on the mill floor. However, Laura was a great comfort to her and Emma constantly marvelled at her good humour, and she never ceased to wonder what she would have done without Laura’s staunch support and her devotion.

One Tuesday evening, towards the end of March, Emma knew the baby was coming and Laura took her into St Mary’s Hospital at Hill Top. After ten hours in labour she gave birth to her child exactly one month to the day before her own seventeenth birthday. To Emma’s joy it was a girl.