Emma’s Wedding

If they were allowed to keep the cottage at least they would have a rent-free home and one which she had always loved, although her mother found the little town of Salcombe lacking in the kind of social life she liked, but it would be cheaper to live there for that very reason. She would find work; during the summer months there was bound to be a job she could do—waitressing, or working in one of the big hotels or a shop. The winter might not be as easy, the little town sank into peace and quiet, but Kingsbridge was only a bus ride away, and that was a bustling small town with plenty of shops and cafés…

Feeling more cheerful, Emma made a list of their own possessions which surely they would be allowed to keep. Anything saleable they must sell, although she thought it was unlikely that her mother would be prepared to part with her jewellery, but they both had expensive clothes—her father had never grudged them money for those—and they would help to swell the kitty.

She got the supper then, thinking that it was a pity that Derek wouldn’t be back in England for three more days. They weren’t engaged, but for some time now their future together had become a foregone conclusion. Derek was a serious young man and had given her to understand that once he had gained the promotion in the banking firm for which he worked they would marry.

Emma liked him, indeed she would have fallen in love with him and she expected to do that without much difficulty, but although he was devoted to her she had the idea that he didn’t intend to show his proper feelings until he proposed. She had been quite content; life wasn’t going to be very exciting, but a kind husband who would cherish one, and any children, and give one a comfortable home should bring her happiness.

She wanted to marry, for she was twenty-seven, but ever since she had left school there had always been a reason why she couldn’t leave home, train for something and be independent. She had hoped that when James had left the university she could be free, but when she had put forward her careful plans it had been to discover that he had already arranged to be away for two years at least, and her mother had become quite hysterical at the idea of not having one or other of her children at home with her. And, of course, her father had agreed…

Perhaps her mother would want her to break off with Derek, but she thought not. A son-in-law in comfortable circumstances would solve their difficulties…

During the next three days Emma longed for Derek’s return. It seemed that the business of being declared bankrupt entailed a mass of paperwork, with prolonged and bewildering visits from severe-looking men with briefcases. Since her mother declared that she would have nothing to do with any of it, Emma did her best to answer their questions and fill in the forms they offered.

‘But I’ll not sign anything until Mr Trump has told me that I must,’ she told them.

It was all rather unnerving; she would have liked a little time to grieve about her father’s death, but there was no chance of that. She went about her household duties while her mother sat staring at nothing and weeping, and Mrs Tims and Ethel worked around the house, grim-faced at the unexpectedness of it all.

Derek came, grave-faced, offered Mrs Dawson quiet condolences and went with Emma to her father’s study. But if she had expected a shoulder to cry on she didn’t get it. He was gravely concerned for her, and kind, but she knew at once that he would never marry her now. He had an important job in the banking world, and marrying the daughter of a man who had squandered a fortune so recklessly was hardly going to enhance his future.

He listened patiently to her problems, observed that she was fortunate to have a sound man such as Mr Trump to advise her, and told her to be as helpful with ‘Authority’ as possible.

‘I’m afraid there are no mitigating circumstances,’ he told her. ‘I looked into the whole affair when I got back today. Don’t attempt to contest anything, whatever you do. Hopefully there will be enough money to clear your father’s debts once everything is sold.’

Emma sat looking at him—a good-looking man in his thirties, rather solemn in demeanour, who had nice manners, was honest in his dealings, and not given to rashness of any sort. She supposed that it was his work which had driven the warmth from his heart and allowed common sense to replace the urge to help her at all costs and, above all, to comfort her.

‘Well,’ said Emma in a tight little voice, ‘how fortunate it is that you didn’t give me a ring, for I don’t need to give it back.’

He looked faintly surprised. ‘I wasn’t aware that we had discussed the future,’ he told her.

‘There is no need, is there? I haven’t got one, have I? And yours matters to you.’

He agreed gravely. ‘Indeed it does. I’m glad, Emma, that you are sensible enough to realise that, and I hope that you will too always consider me as a friend. If I can help in any way…If I can help financially?’

‘Mr Trump is seeing to the money, but thank you for offering. We shall be able to manage very well once everything is sorted out.’

‘Good. I’ll call round from time to time and see how things are…’

‘We shall be busy packing up—there is no need.’ She added in a polite hostess voice, ‘Would you like a cup of coffee before you go?’

‘No—no, thank you. I’m due at the office in the morning and I’ve work to do first.’

He wished Mrs Dawson goodbye, and as Emma saw him to the door he bent to kiss her cheek. ‘If ever you should need help or advice…’

‘Thank you, Derek,’ said Emma. Perhaps she should make a pleasant little farewell speech, but if she uttered another word she would burst into tears.

‘How fortunate that you have Derek,’ said Mrs Dawson when Emma joined her. ‘I’m sure he’ll know what’s best to be done. A quiet wedding as soon as possible.’

‘Derek isn’t going to marry me, Mother. It would interfere with his career.’

A remark which started a flood of tears from her mother.

‘Emma, I can’t believe it. It isn’t as if he were a young man with no money or prospects. There’s no reason why you shouldn’t marry at once.’ She added sharply, ‘You didn’t break it off, did you? Because if you did you’re a very stupid girl.’

‘No, Mother, it’s what Derek wishes.’ Emma felt sorry for her mother. She looked so forlorn and pretty, and so in need of someone to make life easy for her as it always had been. ‘I’m sorry, but he has got his career to consider, and marrying me wouldn’t help him at all.’

‘I cannot think what came over your father…’

‘Father did it because he wanted us to have everything we could possibly want,’ said Emma steadily. ‘He never grudged you anything, Mother.’

Mrs Dawson was weeping again. ‘And look how he has left us now. It isn’t so bad for you, you’re young and can go to work, but what about me? My nerves have never allowed me to do anything strenuous and all this worrying has given me a continuous headache. I feel that I am going to be ill.’

‘I’m going to make you a milky drink and put a warm bottle in your bed, Mother. Have a bath, and when you’re ready I’ll come up and make sure that you are comfortable.’

‘I shall never be comfortable again,’ moaned Mrs Dawson.

She looked like a small woebegone child and Emma gave her a hug; the bottom had fallen out of her mother’s world and, although life would never be the same again, she would do all that she could to make the future as happy as possible.

For a moment she allowed her thoughts to dwell on her own future. Married to Derek she would have had a pleasant, secure life: a home to run, children to bring up, a loving husband and as much of a social life as she would wish. But now that must be forgotten; she must make a happy life for her mother, find work, make new friends. Beyond that she didn’t dare to think. Of course James would come home eventually, but he would plan his own future, cheerfully taking it for granted that she would look after their mother, willing to help if he could but not prepared to let it interfere with his plans.

The house sold quickly, the best of the furniture was sold, and the delicate china and glass. Most of the table silver was sold too, and the house, emptied of its contents, was bleak and unwelcoming. But there was still a great deal to do; even when Emma had packed the cases of unsaleable objects—the cheap kitchen china, the saucepans, the bed and table linen that they were allowed to keep—there were the visits from her parents’ friends, come to commiserate and eager, in a friendly way, for details. Their sympathy was genuine but their offers of help were vague. Emma and her mother must come and stay as soon as they were settled in; they would drive down to Salcombe and see them. Such a pretty place, and how fortunate that they had such a charming home to go to…

Emma, ruthlessly weeding out their wardrobes, thought it unlikely that any of their offers would bear fruit.

Mr Trump had done his best, and every debt had been paid, leaving a few hundred in the bank. Her mother would receive a widow’s pension, but there was nothing else. Thank heaven, reflected Emma, that it was early in April and a job, any kind of job, shouldn’t be too hard to find now that the season would be starting at Salcombe.

They left on a chilly damp morning—a day winter had forgotten and left behind. Emma locked the front door, put the key through the letterbox and got into the elderly Rover they had been allowed to keep until, once at Salcombe, it was to be handed over to the receivers. Her father’s Bentley had gone, with everything else.

She didn’t look back, for if she had she might have cried and driving through London’s traffic didn’t allow for tears. Mrs Dawson cried. She cried for most of their long journey, pausing only to accuse Emma of being a hard-hearted girl with no feelings when she suggested that they might stop for coffee.

They reached Salcombe in the late afternoon and, as it always did, the sight of the beautiful estuary with the wide sweep of the sea beyond lifted Emma’s spirits. They hadn’t been to the cottage for some time but nothing had changed; the little house stood at the end of a row of similar houses, their front gardens opening onto a narrow path along the edge of the water, crowded with small boats and yachts, a few minutes’ walk from the main street of the little town, yet isolated in its own peace and quiet.

There was nowhere to park the car, of course. Emma stopped in the narrow street close by and they walked along the path, opened the garden gate and unlocked the door. For years there had been a local woman who had kept an eye on the place. Emma had written to her and now, as they went inside, it was to find the place cleaned and dusted and groceries and milk in the small fridge.

Mrs Dawson paused on the doorstep. ‘It’s so small,’ she said in a hopeless kind of voice, but Emma looked around her with pleasure and relief. Here was home: a small sitting room, with the front door and windows overlooking the garden, a smaller kitchen beyond and then a minute back yard, and, up the narrow staircase, two bedrooms with a bathroom between them. The furniture was simple but comfortable, the curtains a pretty chintz and there was a small open fireplace.

She put her arm round her mother. ‘We’ll have a cup of tea and then I’ll get the rest of the luggage and see if the pub will let me put the car in their garage until I can hand it over.’

She was tired when she went to bed that night; she had seen to the luggage and the car, lighted a small log fire and made a light supper before seeing her mother to her bed. It had been a long day, she reflected, curled up in her small bedroom, but they were here at last in the cottage, not owing a farthing to anyone and with a little money in the bank. Mr Trump had been an elderly shoulder to lean on, which was more than she could say for Derek. ‘Good riddance to bad rubbish,’ said Emma aloud.

All the same she had been hurt.

In the morning she went to the pub and persuaded the landlord to let her leave the car there until she could hand it over, and then went into the main street to do the shopping. Her mother had declared herself exhausted after their long drive on the previous day and Emma had left her listlessly unpacking her clothes. Not a very good start to the day, but it was a fine morning and the little town sparkled in the sunshine.

Almost all the shops were open, hopeful of early visitors, and she didn’t hurry with her shopping, stopping to look in the elegant windows of the small boutiques, going to the library to enrol for the pair of them, arranging for milk to be delivered, ordering a paper too, and at the same time studying the advertisements in the shop window. There were several likely jobs on offer. She bought chops from the butcher, who remembered her from previous visits, and crossed the road to the greengrocer. He remembered her too, so that she felt quite light-hearted as she made her last purchase in the baker’s.

The delicious smell of newly baked bread made her nose quiver. And there were rolls and pasties, currant buns and doughnuts. She was hesitating as to which to buy when someone else came into the shop. She turned round to look and encountered a stare from pale blue eyes so intent that she blushed, annoyed with herself for doing that just because this large man was staring. He was good-looking too, in a rugged kind of way, with a high-bridged nose and a thin mouth. He was wearing an elderly jersey and cords and his hair needed a good brush…

He stopped staring, leaned over her, took two pasties off the counter and waved them at the baker’s wife. And now the thin mouth broke into a smile. ‘Put it on the bill, Mrs Trott,’ he said, and was gone.