to use it.’ His eyes then roamed the shelves and he heaved a sigh. ‘We have several fruit trees in the garden and when Isabelle was alive our cook preserved the fruit and made jam. Nowadays I dine out, and they haven’t been touched. If you can make use of anything, Emma, take what you want.’
‘Really, sir?’
‘Yes, really, and please, I told you not to call me sir. There’s a lot of tinned produce, far too much for me, most of it coming from tenants in lieu of rent. Despite the war years and rationing, as you can see, my wife hoarded food.’
Emma felt as though she had died and gone to heaven. She grinned with delight. Bottled fruit, jam and meat, real meat, even if tinned. ‘Oh, thank you, sir, I…I mean, Mr Bell.’
‘It’s only going to waste so there’s no need to thank me. When the tea is made, bring it through to the drawing room.’ On that note he left the kitchen.
Emma was still smiling as she brewed the tea. Mr Bell’s kindness was so unexpected, and to think she’d been nervous about working for him! She arranged some biscuits on his plate, carrying the tray through and laying it on a side table.
‘Well, Emma, I must say you’ve done wonders with this room.’
She smiled with pleasure. ‘Thank you. I’ll have my tea and then start on the kitchen.’
‘Very well, but as I said, you don’t have to do everything in one day. I’ll be going out again shortly, so keep the keys in case I leave before you arrive in the morning.’
Emma nodded, pleased that she was going to have the house to herself again. She ate some biscuits, savouring the buttery flavour, and then drank her tea, still sitting at the kitchen table when Mr Bell stuck his head around the door.
‘Goodbye, Emma. I doubt I’ll be back before you leave.’
‘’Bye, Mr Bell,’ Emma called, but the man had already gone.
Horace Bell was smiling with satisfaction as he left the house. He’d hardly noticed Emma before, but overnight she had grown up, turning into a beauty. One look and he’d been smitten, not only by her glorious looks, but by her obvious shyness and innocence. He had plans for her, but he’d take things slowly. He knew that Tom Chambers was unlikely to pay the rent each week and that suited him, the man unaware that he would be playing into his landlord’s hands.
God, Emma was lovely, but so young. He’d have to move carefully, gain her trust and liking before making a move. Nevertheless, when the rent arrears mounted again, he would hold all the cards and, knowing how much her family meant to Emma, he doubted she’d say no.
Horace’s lips tightened. Things would be different this time, and he would hold the purse strings. His wife, Isabelle, had property when they married and, due to his business acumen, more had accrued over the years. They raked in profits that Isabelle had enjoyed spending, her dress allowance alone enormous. She’d been far too generous with the staff, something he didn’t approve of, and after her death he’d been determined to cut down on household expenditure, getting rid of the lot of them. Money was to be accumulated, not frittered away, and nowadays his bank balance was a testimony to his thrift.
He continued to walk; after all, it was good exercise and why waste money on transport? It was half an hour later when he turned into Mycroft Road. His mistress lived here, and she had suited him well, playing the role of a meek and biddable woman perfectly. Yet though he had his needs, he resented the expenditure. As Joyce opened the door, her smile was inviting, and Horace smiled back. He’d continue to keep her for now, but if his plans worked out, he’d have no further use for a strumpet. None at all.
Over three weeks had passed, and Emma was thinly slicing a large tin of Spam. She served it with fried potatoes mashed with cabbage, and as they all ate with relish she knew that afterwards they would be having the last of the preserved fruit. It had been wonderful to bring the food home, but the stock in Mr Bell’s pantry was growing low.
She would have to break it to them, but dreaded it. If her father let her keep more of her wages, she could buy extra food, but he insisted that she stumped up all but a few pence. Mr Bell had been true to his word, taking only five shillings each week towards the rent arrears, but gone too was her dream of fitting them all out with new clothes.
Emma had planned to leave once the arrears were paid off, but she had grown to love her job. With her employer out most of the day, she would fantasise that the house was hers–that instead of occupying a cramped and spartan attic, she lived in luxury. The upstairs bathroom had been a revelation, with hot water flowing from the taps. Many times she’d been tempted to take a bath, but the thought of Mr Bell arriving home unexpectedly held her back. Lately she was getting to grips with the laundry cupboard, finding that when she went to get clean sheets for her employer’s bed, most of the linen had yellowed with lack of use. It had been a bit of a job to master the washing boiler and the mangle, but she had done it. Now each day fresh white sheets billowed like sails at sea on the washing line in the back garden.
As the weeks had passed she gained in confidence, and now when taking a break, she would sneak a book from the shelf, unable to believe that there were so many to choose from. They were all classics, but reading Charles Dickens had become a passion. At the moment she was engrossed in Bleak House and sometimes had to force herself to return to the chores. There had been times when she’d been tempted to sneak a book home, but knew that in the attic there’d be little privacy to read it, and anyway, she was fearful that her siblings would get hold of it, ruining the beautiful leather covers.
Nowadays, when Emma dusted the beautiful ornaments, or tackled the laundry or ironing, she did it pretending that she was a lady, the bubble only bursting when Mr Bell came home. Emma had now seen how the other half lived and realised the stark contrasts when she returned to the attic rooms. After Mr Bell’s spacious house, the cramped conditions were emphasised, along with the smell of poverty. It bred in her a feeling of discontent, a yearning for something better, not just for herself, but for her brothers and sisters too.
There was a babble of voices and, seeing that everyone had finished their dinner, Emma spooned the last of the pears from the jar, saying as she handed them out, ‘Make the most of them. There aren’t any more.’
‘But I thought you said Mr Bell had loads of stuff in the pantry?’ Dick said.
‘He did, but with feeding seven of us, it’s soon gone down. All the fruit has been used, and though there are still some tins of Spam and corned beef, they won’t last long. It’s been lovely having this extra food, but we’ll be back to vegetable stew soon.’
‘Charlie is giving me a rise next week, and if Dad puts his hand in his pocket, maybe we could have meat regularly.’
‘Yeah, and pigs might fly,’ Emma said bitterly, ‘but it’s good of Charlie to give you a rise.’
‘Yeah, he’s a great bloke.’
‘Dad isn’t home yet so can I have his pears?’ Susan asked eagerly.
‘I want some too,’ Ann said.
Now that James and Archie were living downstairs, Ann was the youngest. Like Emma and Bella, she was pretty, but in a less obvious way. Her hair was brown, as were her eyes, but unlike Susan, she was a loving child
