he main street of Fairley village was deserted, it being two o’clock on Sunday afternoon. It was a cool April day and, as was normal at this time of year, the sky was heavy with cinereous clouds that rolled in a gathering mass along the crest of those black implacable moors which stretched in eerie silence towards the smudged horizon. The watery sun had retreated hours ago and the village looked inhospitable, the grey stone walls and slate rooftops of the cottages fusing into the forbidding semi-industrial landscape, an unrelieved etching of monotones beneath that sullen metallic sky. The wind blowing in from the nearby limestone dale country was tinged with North Sea rain and a shower was imminent. It had already poured earlier, and the roofs and cobblestones held a silvery sheen that was glassy and stark in the dismal environment.

To Emma, climbing the steep hill, the village appeared smaller than she remembered, oddly diminished, but she had broader comparisons to draw upon now, and she recognized that her eyes had become accustomed to the imposing buildings of Leeds, the fine establishments of Armley. The depressing aspects of her surroundings were dimmed, became irrelevant, for she was filled with happiness. She smiled to herself. She was looking forward to seeing her father and Frank, and this reunion, so yearningly longed for, was uppermost in her thoughts, as it had been for days. They did not know she was coming today; she had not written to announce her impending visit, wanting to give them a lovely surprise. Her anticipation was fully revealed on her eager and shining face. Frank must have grown in the past ten months, she thought. She wondered how they would look, little Frank, now thirteen, and her father. She herself had taken great pains with her appearance, before setting out that morning, determined to look her very best. This was partially prompted by her sense of pride, but also to prove to her father that she had been successful out on her own in the world. She was wearing the red silk dress and the black wool coat which had formerly belonged to Olivia Wainright, and new black button boots purchased only last week. The shopping bag she carried contained thoughtfully selected presents: socks, a shirt, and a tie for her dad, plus his favourite pipe tobacco; socks, a shirt, and writing materials for Frank, along with an edition of David Copperfield. And, carefully placed on top of these things there was a bunch of spring flowers for her mother’s grave. She had dipped into her precious savings to buy everything, but she had done so joyfully and with love; and in her black reticule there were three crisp pound notes for her father, to help with the family expenses.

The hill was steep, but Emma climbed it easily. There was a decided bounce to her step and she felt wonderfully alive. Optimistic as she was by nature, Emma was now inordinately confident of the future.

The baby was comfortably settled with her cousin Freda in Ripon. As Emma had predicted to Blackie, Freda had been more than willing to take Edwina in, and for as long as Emma wished. If she had been surprised at Emma’s unexpected arrival on her doorstep, or shocked at her story, the loving and compassionate Freda had not betrayed this at all. She had taken everything in her stride. Her welcome had been genuine and she had fussed over Emma and commented ecstatically on Edwina’s prettiness and her docile temper. She had promised to care for the child as if she were her own, and had faithfully pledged to keep Emma’s circumstances a secret from Jack Harte, with whom she was not on very good terms, and whom, she explained, she had not heard from since Elizabeth’s death in 1904. When Emma had left Ripon to return to Armley she was in a calmer frame of mind and, although she was saddened to leave the child, her confidence in Freda, who was so like her mother, had helped to assuage her wistfulness considerably. She knew Edwina was in capable hands, and that she would be looked after and cherished with complete devotion.

Now, as she passed the White Horse halfway up the hill, Emma quickened her steps, not wishing to encounter any of the men or boys from the village, those perennial stragglers who indulged in a last pint and never left the pub before two o’clock. They might appear at any moment on their way home for a late Sunday lunch. She was only a few steps past the pub when she heard the door open and the sound of raucous voices echoing in the chilly air, as a handful of men staggered out into the streets, vociferously merry with the vast amounts of beer they had consumed. Emma hurried faster.

‘Emma!’

Her heart dropped and she had the urge to run, reluctant to become embroiled in a conversation or to expose herself to curious questions from the locals. She increased her pace, without looking back. Drunken louts, she thought disdainfully.

‘Emma! For God’s sake wait. It’s me. Winston!’

She stopped abruptly and swung around, her face lighting up. Her elder brother, resplendent in his naval uniform, was chasing up the street after her, waving his white sailor hat in his hand, his mates forgotten. They were staring after Winston, mouths agape, ogling Emma poised on the hill. Winston panted up to her. He threw his arms around her and hugged her to him, showering her face and her hair with kisses. A warm flush of happiness swept through her and she clung to him tightly, her love for him as fierce and as real as ever. With a sharp stab she realized how much she had missed him.

After a few seconds clutched in this tight embrace, they pulled away and automatically stared at each other, their eyes searching, questioning. Emma caught her breath as she looked up at Winston. His face had always been beautiful, but in an almost girlish way. Now it was extraordinarily and staggeringly handsome. Since she had last seen him he had matured. The high cheekbones, the wide brow, the straight nose, the generous mouth, and the well-shaped chin were all as finely drawn as ever, and yet they appeared much less delicate. There was strength in his face that bespoke his enormous masculinity. And those cornflower-blue eyes, widely set below the arched black brows and fringed with thick and curling black lashes, were brighter than she remembered, positively blinding in the cold northern light. His black hair was blowing in the breeze and his perfect white teeth flashed in his fresh-complexioned face as he smiled at her. He had grown and filled out. He was practically as tall as their father, and wide-shouldered and muscular. He’s too handsome for his own good, Emma thought. Women must adore him but men must surely hate him, she decided, and then wondered how many girls had already fallen at his feet, how many broken hearts lay scattered in his ports of call. He would be irresistible to the opposite sex, she saw that only too clearly. She marvelled to herself that this incredible specimen of manhood was her brother; the skinny, hot-tempered boy who had teased her unmercifully, pulled her hair, quarrelled with her and fought her, but who had always been her staunch ally when necessary, and whom she had never ceased to secretly worship.

Winston, gazing back at Emma, was thinking: She’s changed enormously. There’s something very different about her. She’s more self-assured, even worldly. By God, she’s a stunning girl. He corrected himself. No, Emma is a woman now, and ripe for the plucking. A feeling of jealous possessiveness raced through him, was so powerful, so searing he was shaken at the intensity of his feelings. The brightest man breathing is not good enough for my sister. And he recognized then that he truly adored her. In point of fact, that was to be the major problem all of his life. No other woman would ever measure up to his sister in his eyes.

‘You look wonderful,’ Emma said at last, breaking the silence, her eyes overflowing with the tenderest of lights.

‘So do you, little sister,’ Winston said. ‘Quite grown-up, too.’ He smiled at her lovingly and with pride, and then the smile congealed. His joy was dampened when he remembered how poor little Frank had grieved for Emma, was still grieving for her, and a furious glint entered those startling eyes. He grabbed her arm roughly. ‘Hey, our Emma, where the hell have you been all these months? We’ve been worried to death! How could you run off like that?’

There was a hidden smile on Emma’s face. ‘Oh, the pot’s calling the kettle black, is it?’

Winston glared. ‘I’m a man. That’s different. You’d no business sneaking off that way. You were needed at home.’

‘Don’t shout, Winston,’ said Emma. ‘Dad knows where I’ve been. I’ve written to him regularly, and sent him money.’

Winston was scrutinizing her closely and scowling darkly. ‘Yes, but you never put an address on those letters—where we could write back. That was wrong of you, Emma.’

‘Dad knows I’ve been travelling with my lady, Mrs John Smith of Bradford. Please, Winston, don’t look so angry, and let go of my arm. You’re hurting me.’

‘Sorry,’ Winston muttered, and released his powerful grip. He took hold of her hand. ‘Come on, don’t let’s stand here, making a spectacle of ourselves. I can see half a dozen lace curtains twitching.’ He almost dragged her up to Top Fold.

‘I expect you have a ship now, don’t you, Winston?’ asked Emma warmly, hoping to dispel her brother’s belligerent mood.

‘Yes,’ said the laconic Winston.

Undismayed by his curtness, Emma persisted, ‘Where are you stationed, Winston?’

‘Scapa Flow.’

‘Well, you must give me your address, so that I can write to you every week. Would you like me to?’

‘If you want.’

‘Yes, I do. And I’ll give you my address. You’ll write back to me, won’t you, Winston?’

‘Yes.’

Emma sighed inside. However, she knew him well enough not to be discouraged by his gruff answers. The evasiveness in her letters about her whereabouts over the past months obviously still rankled with him. She hoped her father would not have the same attitude, that he was not harbouring any grudges. Now she said gaily, ‘It must be exciting, being in the navy. Seeing different places, I’m ever so glad you joined up, Winston, really I am. Why, you can see the world, just like you always dreamed about doing when you were little.’ He did not respond, but Emma saw a softening on his face, and she pressed, ‘It is exciting, isn’t it?’

Winston was incapable of remaining angry with his beloved Emma for long. Also, he knew his brusqueness with her was really caused by his own growing apprehension. He must not upset her unduly. Not now when within minutes she was about to suffer a terrible shock. And so he adopted a cheeriness he did not feel, and said, ‘Yes, you’re right. It is exciting. I love the navy, Emma. I’m learning a lot. Not just about life at sea, but many other things, educational things. It’s fascinating. I aim to do well in the navy, Emma.’

His last statement filled her with pleasure. She opened her mouth, but before she could comment, he rushed on, ‘I’ll tell you something I’ve never told anybody else, Emma. I was a bit scared at first.’

Emma’s eyes flew open. ‘You scared? I don’t believe it.’

Winston was relieved he had managed to divert her from asking any trying questions about the family. He cleared his throat. ‘Well, I was,’ he confided, a wry smile playing on his mouth. ‘It was the night I boarded my ship for the first time. It was a cold night, and dark and raining, and they moved us from Shotley Barracks, opposite Harwich, to Sheerness. The picket boat drew up to the battleship, and I was going up the accommodation ladder to the quarterdeck when I saw these giant brass letters on the bulkhead shining in the faint light. “Fear God, Honour the King”, they said. I got a funny sensation in the pit of my stomach. I was awed, Emma, and fearful. Those words were so—so—meaningful, so serious. Powerful, really. I suddenly understood about the great traditions of the British navy and all they stood for. The honour, the courage, and the glory inherited from men like Drake and Raleigh and Nelson. I realized I was in the service of my King and country. I felt a pride, a sense of duty. That night I think I began to take the navy seriously. It was no longer simply an escape route from Fairley, or a lark.’

Emma was both impressed and moved by his words. ‘I’m proud of you, Winston. I bet Dad is, too.’

This remark wiped the smile off his face. ‘Hurry up,’ he said, striding out.

Emma had to run to keep up with him. ‘Well, Dad is, isn’t he?’ she asked cheerfully, ignoring his glum expression, smiling widely.

‘I don’t know,’ mumbled Winston, and he kept his head averted.

‘Did you tell him all that? About the traditions of the navy and the way you felt? It would please him, Winston. It really would. He was a good soldier himself when he was in the Boer War and he’s very patriotic, you know.’

Attempting to circumvent any discussion about their father, Winston said, ‘And what about you, Emma? How have you been? I notice you are talking very fancy, for one thing.’

Amused, she peeked at him out of the corner of her eye and said in a jocular tone, ‘So are you, Winston Harte. Do you think I’m deaf?’

‘No, I don’t. I’ve been paying attention to myself, Emma. In every way. And I don’t just mean by speaking properly, either. I’m going in for promotion,’ he announced. ‘You don’t think I want to stay a rating, do you? I’m moving up the ladder. I’ll be an able seaman next, then a leading seaman. Eventually, I intend to be a petty officer, maybe even a chief petty officer one day.’

‘Not an admiral?’ Emma teased.

‘I know my limitations,’ he retorted, but his voice was kind. He put his arm around her shoulder protectively, in the way he had done when they were children. She was immediately aware of his unspoken love. Emma smiled inside, thinking how wonderful it was to be with Winston again, and in a few seconds she would be hugging her father, and little Frank, and it would be like old times.

They hurried down Top Fold in silence, and when they reached the garden gate leading to the cottage Emma’s heart lifted with happiness and she extracted herself from Winston’s embrace and flew up the flagged path, propelled by her mounting excitement. She did not see the heartsick expression clouding Winston’s face.

Frank had his back to the door, and he was peering into the oven set to one side of the fireplace, when Emma walked in. ‘Yer late again, our Winston. Me Aunty Lily’ll play pop if she knows. I’ve tried ter keep yer dinner warm, but it looks a bit funny now. Still, here it is, Winston.’ The younger boy straightened up and swung around. He almost dropped the plate he was holding the moment he saw Emma. His mouth sagged and his eyes became so huge they filled his narrow face like liquid pools of grey light. He was dumbfounded. Then he banged the plate down on to the table negligently and sped across the room. He flung himself into Emma’s outstretched arms with such velocity he almost knocked her over. She held him close to her, stroking his hair. He began to cry, sobbing as if his heart would break. She was at once startled and baffled, and she tried to soothe him.

‘Frank, lovey, don’t cry so. I’m here, safe and well, and with presents for you, too. Presents you’ll like, Frank.’

He raised his freckled and damp face to hers and said, with a snuffle, ‘I’ve missed yer, Emma. Ever so much. I thought yer’d never come back. Never ever again.’

‘Don’t be silly. I’ll always come back to see you. I’ve missed you, too, Frank. Now, come along, stop crying and let me take off my coat.’

Winston had thrown his cap on to a chair, and unable to look at Emma in his anxiety, he stared with distaste at the food on the plate. It had long ago coagulated into a mass of limp Yorkshire pudding, frizzled roast beef, mashed potatoes, and Brussels sprouts, all running together in a rapidly drying gravy. ‘I don’t feel very hungry,’ he muttered in a low voice. Winston discovered to his dismay that he had lost his nerve. How could he tell her? All the right words had fled, leaving his mind empty.

‘Me Aunt Lily’ll be mad if yer don’t eat yer dinner,’ warned Frank.

Emma hung up her coat behind the door and returned to the fireplace with the shopping bag. She placed the flowers in the sink and pulled out the presents for Frank, hoping to bring a smile to that cheerless little face. ‘These are for you, love,’ she said with a bright smile, and then addressed her older brother. ‘I’m sorry, Winston, I didn’t bring you anything. I didn’t know you’d be home on leave. But never mind, this will come in useful, I’m sure.’ As she spoke she opened her reticule and took out one of the new pound notes. ‘Take this, Winston. You can buy yourself some cigarettes and a pint or two.’

She carried the presents over to Frank, who accepted them from her silently. Then his eyes lit up. ‘Thank yer, Emma. Just what I needed.’ His pleasure was undisguised.

Now Emma busied herself at the Welsh dresser, taking out the other items. ‘These are for Dad,’ she said, her voice light. ‘Where is he?’ She glanced from Winston to Frank, a look of joyous expectation on her face.

Winston put the knife and fork down on the plate with a loud clatter, and Frank stood gazing at her vacantly, clutching his presents. Neither of them spoke.

‘Where’s our dad?’ asked Emma. They still did not reply and Winston dropped his eyes again but looked up quickly, flashing a warning to Frank, who had blanched.

‘What’s wrong? Why are you both so quiet?’ This was a fierce demand and fear began to trickle through her veins. She grabbed hold of Winston’s arm urgently and brought her face closer to his, peering into his eyes, ‘Where is he, Winston?’

Winston cleared his throat nervously. ‘He’s with our mam, Emma.’

Emma experienced a little burst of relief. ‘Oh, you mean he’s gone to visit her grave. I wish I’d been a bit sooner and I could have gone with him. I think I’ll run up there now, and catch him before he—’

‘No, Emma, you can’t do that,’ Winston cried, jumping up. He put his arm around her and led her to a chair. ‘Sit down a minute, Emma.’

Winston lowered himself into the chair opposite her. He took her hand in his and held it tightly. ‘You didn’t understand me, love,’ Winston began in a tiny voice that was so faint she could hardly hear it. ‘I didn’t mean our dad had gone to visit Mam’s grave. I meant he was there with her. Lying next to her in the graveyard.’

Winston watched her attentively, ready to move towards her if necessary, the desire to insulate her pain uppermost in his mind. But she seemed uncomprehending.

‘Our dad’s dead,’ said Frank, with his usual childlike bluntness. His voice was leaden with sorrow.

‘Dead,’ whispered Emma, incredulous. ‘He can’t be dead. It’s not possible. I would have known if he had died. I would have known inside. In my heart. I just know I would.’ As she uttered these words she realized from their grim expressions that it was true. Emma’s face crumpled. Tears welled into her eyes and spilled out over the rims and rolled down her cheeks silently, falling on to the front of the red silk dress in small splashes.

Winston’s eyes were blurred and he wept as he had wept when his father had died. Now his tears were for Emma. She had been so much closer to their father than either he or Frank. He brushed his hand across his eyes resolutely, resolving to be stalwart. He must try to console her, to alleviate her grief. He knelt at Emma’s feet and wrapped his arms around her body. She fell against him, sobs wracking her. ‘Oh, Winston! Oh, Winston! I never saw him again. I never saw him again!’ she wailed.

‘There, there, love,’ Winston said, stroking her hair, murmuring softly to her, pressing her to his chest, comforting and tender. After a long time her sobbing began to diminish and slowly subsided altogether.

Frank was making tea at the sink, swallowing his own tears. He had to be brave, a big boy. Winston had told him that. But Emma’s terrible distress had infected him and his shoulders jerked in silent misery. Winston became conscious of the boy’s wretchedness and he beckoned to Frank, stretching out one arm. Frank skittered across the floor and buried his head against Winston, who encircled his sister and brother in his arms, lovingly, and with great devotion. He was the head of the family now and responsible for them both. The three of them stayed huddled together in silent commiseration, drawing solace from their closeness, until eventually all of their tears were used up.

The kitchen was full of gently shifting shadows, the greying light outside intruding bleakly through the glass panes, the flames in the grate meagre as the logs burned low. There was no sound except the sibilant hissing of the kettle on the hob, the murmurous ticking of the old clock, the pattering of spring rain as it hit the windows. Winston’s voice sounded hollow in this dolorous silence. ‘It’s just the three of us now. We’ve got to stick together. We’ve got to be a family. That’s what Dad and Mam would want. We must look after each other. Emma, Frank, do you both hear me?’

‘Yes, Winston,’ whispered Frank.

Dazed and sorrowing, Emma drew herself up and wiped her face with one hand. She was white with anguish. Her eyes were swollen and red-rimmed, and her mouth quivered, but she took steely control of herself, smiling at Winston weakly. She nodded her understanding of his words. She could not speak.

‘Frank, please bring the tea over to the table,’ Winston said, rising wearily. He sat in the chair opposite Emma and took out a cigarette. He looked at the packet of Woodbines and remembered, with a nostalgic twinge of sadness, how his father had always complained about his tab ends.

Emma pulled herself fully upright. She faced Winston. ‘Why didn’t you tell me straightaway, when I ran into you outside the White Horse?’ she murmured.

‘How could I, Emma? In the middle of the village street. I was so relieved to see you, I could only think how glad I was that you were safe and well. I was happy for a split second. And then I became afraid. That’s why I chattered on about the navy, and rushed you home the way I did. I knew you’d break down. I wanted you here, in this house, when you heard the bad news.’

‘Yes, you were right. You did the best thing. When did—did—our dad—’ She pressed her handkerchief to her face and endeavoured to suppress the sobs. She had been grief-stricken at her mother’s death, yet in a sense that had been anticipated for months. The news of her father’s passing away had been so unexpected she was devastated, in a state of awful shock.

‘He died five days after you left, last August,’ said Winston dully, dragging on his cigarette, his face a picture of despondency.

Emma turned a ghastly putty colour and her face was so rigid, so unmoving it might have been cut from stone. I never knew, she thought. All these months I’ve been writing to him. Writing terrible lies. And all the time he was dead, and buried in the cold earth. She clapped her hand over her mouth, choking back a sob, heaving in silence.

Winston eventually calmed her down again and Frank brought the tea. She took hold of the cup. Her hand shook so badly she had to put it down. She stared into space and finally managed to ask, ‘How did he die?’ Her voice was drained. She looked at Frank and then at Winston.

‘There was an accident,’ Winston said. ‘I was at Scapa Flow. Aunt Lily sent me a telegram and they let me come home on compassionate leave. We didn’t know where to find you, Emma. We kept thinking you’d be back in a few days. Hoping against hope. But—’

Emma was silent. She had no excuses. A sick dismay lodged in her stomach, and guilt mingled with her grief, which was absolute. After a few seconds she asked tremulously, ‘What kind of accident?’ She was determined to know everything now, however heartrending it was. She turned to Frank, who had seated himself next to her. ‘You were here before Winston arrived. Can you explain it to me? Would it be too hard for you, Frankie? Too painful, lovey?’

‘No, Emma. I can tell you.’ He gulped. ‘Winston said I have to be brave and strong and accept life’s hard knocks,’ he intoned in that serious voice he sometimes adopted. Her heart went out to him. He was such a little boy and he was trying to be so courageous.

‘You’re a good, brave boy, Frank. Tell me all about it. But take your time.’ She squeezed his hand reassuringly.

‘Well, yer see, Emma, that Saturday yer left, me and me dad was working at t’mill, as yer knows. Anyways, there was a fire and me dad got burned. On his back and his shoulders and legs. Third-degree burns, so Dr Mac said. And he breathed a lot of smoke.’

Emma’s blood ran cold as he was speaking. She shuddered, and her heart tightened as she imagined her father’s pain, the suffering he must undoubtedly have endured from his torturous injuries. She tried to steady herself, not wishing to disturb Frank, who was on the verge of tears again.

‘Are yer all right, our Emma?’ he asked solicitously.

‘Yes, Frank. Finish telling me.’

Speaking gravely, he gave her the precise details of the injuries their father had sustained, the care and attention he had received, the concern of Adam Fairley, the devotion of Dr Mac and his wife, and the doctors at the valley hospital.

When he had finished, Emma said in a choked voice, ‘How horrible for Dad to die like that, in such pain. I can’t bear to think about it. How awful it must have been for him.’

Frank eyed her carefully. ‘Me Aunty Lily said he didn’t want to live any more.’ His tone was hushed and his face was all bone and freckles, and he looked like a little old man to Emma.

She stared at him stupefied, her brows puckering. ‘What a weird and terrible thing for her to say about our dad. What did she mean, lovey?’

Frank looked at Winston, who nodded his assent. ‘We went ter see me dad every day,’ Frank explained. ‘Tom Hardy took us in the Squire’s carriage. Me dad didn’t seem ter get any better, Emma. On the Wednesday after the accident, when we was there, me Aunt Lily said ter him, “Now, Jack, yer can’t go on like this yer knows, lad. Yer’ve got ter make an effort. Or yer’ll be where poor Elizabeth is, in the cemetery.” And me dad, he stared at her ever so funny like, with a faraway look in his eyes. Then he said, “I wish I was with Elizabeth, Lily.” And when we was leaving, I kissed him and he said, “Goodbye, Frankie. Always be a good lad.” Just like that. Final like. And when he kissed Winston—’ Frank’s eyes flew to his brother. ‘Tell her what he said ter yer, Winston.’

Winston ran his hand through his hair. ‘Dad said to me, “Look after the young ‘uns, Winston. Stick together. And when Emma comes back from Bradford, tell her ter pick a sprig of heather for me and thee mam, up at the Top of the World, and keep it by her always for remembrance.” And then—’ Winston’s voice cracked at the memory. He took a deep breath, and continued softly, ‘Dad tried to get hold of my hand, Emma, but his were all burned and bandaged, so I brought my face down to his and he kissed me again, and he said, “I love thee all, Winston. But I love Elizabeth the best and I can’t live without her.” I began to cry, but Dad just smiled, and he had such a bright light in his eyes. They were as vivid as yours, Emma, and he looked happy. Really happy. He said I shouldn’t be sad, because he had me mam to go to. I thought he was a bit delirious, to tell you the truth. The doctor came in then and asked us to leave. It was on the way back to Fairley that Aunt Lily said he’d die of a broken heart and not his burns. That he’d never stopped grieving for our mam. He died that same night, Emma. Peacefully, in his sleep. It was as if he had wanted to die, like Aunt Lily said.’

Emma said, with a strangled sob, ‘Did he understand that I hadn’t returned from Bradford, and that’s why I wasn’t there, Winston?’

Her brother nodded. ‘Yes, and he wasn’t upset, Emma. He said he didn’t have to see you, because you were locked in his heart for ever.’

Emma closed her burning eyes and leaned back against the chair. My father needed me and I wasn’t here, she thought. If only I had waited a few days longer. She dreaded to hear more, but she could not stop herself probing for additional details. ‘It must have been a terrible fire. Obviously you weren’t hurt, Frank, thank heaven. Were many of the men injured? Who else died?’

‘No, I wasn’t hurt at all,’ Frank reassured her. ‘A few of the men had minor burns, but not serious. Only me dad died, Emma.’

Emma looked at him in puzzlement. ‘But if there was a fire at the mill, surely—’

‘The fire wasn’t in the mill building. It was in the big warehouse,’ Frank interrupted. ‘Me dad was crossing the yard and he spotted the flames raging. If he hadn’t gone inter the warehouse he wouldn’t have been hurt at all. Yer see, Master Edwin was down in the mill yard that day, and he was struggling ter open the door of the warehouse. He went inside. Me dad ran in after him, warning him it was ever so dangerous. A blazing bale was falling from the gantry, near Master Edwin. Me dad threw himself on top of Master Edwin, ter protect him. The bale hit me dad, and he saved Master Edwin’s life, and with selfless courage, so the Squire said.’

Emma went icy cold all over. ‘My father saved Edwin Fairley’s life!’ she cried with such ferocity even Winston was brought up sharply, aghast at her tone. ‘He died to save a Fairley! My father sacrificed himself for one of them!’ She spat out the words venomously. ‘I can’t believe it!’ she shouted. She began to laugh hysterically, and her bitterness rose up in her.

Her brothers were gaping at her incredulously. Frank cringed and drew away from her. Winston said, ‘But Emma, anybody would have done the same thing—’

‘Would they really!’ she stormed, leaping out of the chair. She stood in the centre of the kitchen, her volcanic rage a stupendous force in her slender body. ‘Would Squire Fairley? Or Master Gerald? Or Master Edwin?’ Again she spat out the names and with a complete and virulent loathing. ‘Would they have risked their lives to save our father’s? Never. Never, I tell you. Not in a million years. Oh God! I can’t stand it,’ she screamed, and her whole body vibrated with her fulminating fury.

‘Calm down. Calm down, Emma. You’ll make yourself sick. It happened, and nothing will change that,’ Winston said, shaken at her violent reaction, and afraid for her.

‘The Squire has been ever so decent,’ interposed Frank, also trying to mollify her. ‘He pays us me dad’s wages. A pound a week, we get. And he’s going to pay it until I’m fifteen—’

‘That’s mighty big of him!’ snarled Emma, her eyes threatening and ugly. ‘That’s forty-eight pounds a year.’ She laughed caustically. ‘He’s paid it for the past ten months, I suppose. And he’ll pay it for another two years. Very decent of him indeed!’ Her tone dripped acid. ‘Is that all my father’s life was worth to the Fairleys? Approximately one hundred and fifty pounds, give or take a few shillings. It’s a joke. A disgusting joke!’ She caught her breath, her chest heaving. ‘Is that all he was worth?’ she demanded once more.

Winston cleared his throat and said in his gentlest voice, ‘Well, he does a bit more than that. The Squire, I mean. He moved Frank into the mill offices and he’s being trained as a clerk. And every Sunday Aunt Lily goes up to the Hall and Cook gives her a basket of food. Enough for the whole week. For her and Frank. You see, Aunt Lily moved in here, Emma, to look after Frank. She gave up her cottage when Dad died. She’s gone up to the Hall now, Emma, to get the food. It helps a lot.’

‘A basket of food,’ she repeated scathingly, and laughed nastily. ‘Well, well, well. The Squire is being generous.’ She swung her head sharply and glowered at Frank. ‘I’m surprised you don’t choke on it, our Frank. I know I would!’

She turned on her heels and walked across the room, her head held high. Frank and Winston gazed at her stiff back and they exchanged worried glances. She put on her coat and took the flowers from the sink. She paused in the doorway and looked around. ‘I’m going to the cemetery,’ she said, her voice steely. ‘And then I shall go up to the Top of the World. I doubt there’s any heather there at this time of year, but I shall look. Anyway, I want to be by myself for a bit. I’ll be back later, and we can talk some more. Make some plans for Frank’s future. I’d like to see Aunty Lily as well.’

‘I’ll come with you,’ said Winston. ‘We’ll both come, won’t we, Frank?’ The younger boy nodded his acquiescence.

‘No!’ exclaimed Emma. ‘I told you I want to be alone. To think for a while.’

She closed the door softly behind her, before they had a chance to protest. She walked slowly up Top Fold, her feet dragging, a feeling of exhaustion swamping her. She headed for the small graveyard next to the church, aware of nothing except her overwhelming grief. Her face tightened and darkened, and there was a chilly light in her eyes as she looked ahead unwaveringly. And then her consummate hatred for the Fairleys, so close to the surface, rose up again and took hold of her, jostling against the grief for prominence in her mind. Was there no end to the pain that family would cause her? Was she to be cursed with them all the days of her life? Damn the Fairleys. All of them. Damn them! Damn them! Damn them! May they rot in hell!