In point of fact, Blackie O’Neill would have made a splendid actor. He certainly had all the necessary attributes required for that histrionic art-outstanding looks, natural charm, an instinctive sense of timing, emotional depth, and an animal magnetism that was spellbinding when projected to the fullest, and it was being decidedly projected at this very moment. There was not a little of the ham in Blackie and he was now playing outrageously to the crowd, who were electrified. He had come to the last verse of the old Irish air, and he stepped away from the piano, leaned forward, almost bowing, and then drew himself up to his full height of six feet three inches, expanding his broad chest. One great arm swept out and he finished triumphantly:

‘And I shall hear, though soft ye tread above me,

And all my grave will warmer, sweeter be,

And you will bend and tell me that you love me,

And I shall sleep in peace until ye come to me!’

His voice struck at Emma’s heart as it always did, and as the fading echoes of it washed over her in all-enveloping waves, her throat became tight with that bittersweet sadness she experienced whenever he sang. She blinked and looked around. There wasn’t a dry eye in the place and she saw the flutter of white as handkerchiefs came out to wipe other moist eyes. The crowd was clapping spontaneously and she heard diverse voices shouting out requests: ‘Give us another, Blackie, lad!’…‘How about “The Minstrel Boy”!’…‘Sing us “Cockles and Mussels”, lad!’ Blackie was bowing and grinning and bowing again, obviously enjoying every minute of the approval. He seemed about to oblige with another rendition when he spotted Emma.

‘Later, mates,’ he cried above the din, and crossed the floor in several quick strides, pushing his way through the group surrounding the piano. Emma stood shyly near the door, clutching her reticule. Blackie was towering above her, his eyes sweeping over her in one swift but appraising glance. His surprise at the radical change in her apperance was evident, even though he tried to conceal it. He recovered instantly and said, with his usual enthusiasm, ‘Emma! It’s wonderful to see yer, sure and it is, mavourneen.’

Blackie pulled her into his arms and hugged her. Then he stood her away, as was his habit, still holding her arms and gazing into her upturned face. ‘Why, ye be looking more fetching than I ever did see ye, Emma. And quite the young lady. Yes, indeed!’

Emma laughed. ‘Thank you, Blackie, and it’s lovely to see you, too.’

He grinned at her, his delight as obvious as hers. ‘Come on, mavourneen. Let’s be going into the Saloon Bar. It will be quieter in there, I am thinking, and we can talk better. It is also a more suitable spot for a fine young lady like ye.’ He winked as he said this and asked, ‘And what will ye be having to drink?’

‘A lemonade, please,’ she responded.

‘Wait here,’ Blackie ordered, and headed for the bar. Emma’s eyes followed him. She had not seen him since the spring, almost nine months, and he, too, had changed. He seemed somehow more mature and, in spite of that natural exuberance that always bubbled to the surface, there was an air of containment about him, and she thought she also detected a certain sadness. Rosie, her vast body encased in startling orange satin, was beaming from ear to ear and waving at Emma, who returned her greeting. Blackie was back within seconds, carrying the drinks. ‘Follow me,’ he said, shouldering his way through the throng that filled the main room.

The Saloon Bar was relatively empty and certainly quieter, and Emma at once felt less uncomfortable here than in the public bar. She glanced around curiously. It was quite sedate, in fact rather elegant for a pub. Blackie found them a table in the corner, put down the drinks, pulled out a chair for her with a gentlemanly flourish, and seated himself opposite. He took a sip of the frothing pint and regarded her over the rim of the glass attentively. Then he placed it on the table and, leaning forward, said in a sober tone, ‘And what’s all this about, then? What are ye doing in Leeds? A little snippet like ye. I thought I told ye a long time ago this was no place for ye, until ye were older. Sure and I did, Emma Harte.’

Emma threw him a quick glance. ‘I’m doing all right.’

‘Aye, so I can see, by the looks of ye. But ye might not have been so lucky, I am thinking. Come on, out with it! What made ye leave Fairley?’

Emma was not ready to confide in him just yet and she ignored the question. ‘Yes, I was lucky,’ she conceded and, changing the subject, continued, ‘I didn’t know you would be away. I missed you, Blackie. Why were you in Ireland so long? I thought you were never coming back.’

His face became sorrowful. ‘Ah, mavourneen, mavourneen,’ he said through a deep sigh. ‘It was me good friend Father O’Donovan, who was dying. An old priest I truly loved, who taught me everything I know. That is, what bit of learning I do have. I stayed with him till the end. Sad it was, oh, very sad indeed.’ He shook his head and his Celtic soul seemed to be mourning afresh, for his eyes were dimming at the memory.

Emma stretched out her small hand and patted his arm. ‘I am sorry, Blackie. Really very sorry. I know how upset you must be.’ She was silent for a moment, commiserating with him, and then she murmured softly, ‘So that’s why you stayed in Ireland all these months.’

‘No, mavourneen. Father O’Donovan, God rest his soul, died within a couple of weeks. But I did stay on for a bit of a holiday with me cousins, Michael and Siobhan, who I hadn’t seen in many a year. Then me Uncle Pat did write to me and told me I must get meself back to England quick like. I got back to Leeds yesterday. Naturally, it being Friday night, I came in for a pint. And what a surprise I did get when Rosie gave me ye letter. I was thunderstruck, if the truth be known.’ He looked at her quizzically and finished, ‘Out with it, colleen. Why did ye decide to leave Fairley?’

Emma eyed him a little charily and said quietly, ‘Before I tell you the reason, Blackie, you must promise me something.’

Blackie stared at her, amazed more by the seriousness of her tone rather than her request. ‘And what might that be?’

Emma met his direct gaze calmly. ‘You must promise me you won’t tell my father, or anyone, where I am.’

‘And why all the secrecy?’ Blackie demanded. ‘Does not ye dad know where ye be?’

‘He thinks I’m working in Bradford,’ Emma explained.

‘Ah, Emma, that’s not right. Now why would ye not be telling ye dad where ye are?’

‘Blackie, you haven’t promised me yet,’ she insisted in her coolest voice.

He sighed. ‘All right, then, if that’s the way ye be wanting it. I swear on the heads of the Blessed Saints that I won’t be telling a living soul where ye be.’

‘Thank you, Blackie.’ There was a dignified expression on her face and she was not at all nervous or apprehensive as she said, ‘I had to leave Fairley because I am going to have a baby!’

‘Jaysus!’ Blackie exploded in stunned disbelief. ‘A baby!’ he repeated, mouthing the word as if it were foreign to his tongue.

‘Yes, in March,’ Emma informed him calmly, ‘and I had to leave because the boy, that is the father, well, he let me down.’

‘He did what!’ Blackie bellowed, his face growing scarlet. ‘By God, I’ll thrash the living daylights out of him! I will that. We will go to Fairley tomorrow and see ye dad and his dad. And by God he’ll marry ye if I’ve got to beat him to a pulp to get him to the church!’

‘Hush, Blackie,’ Emma said. She could see he was in the grip of a terrible fury. ‘It’s no use, Blackie. When I told the boy the way it was, he said he would marry me. That I shouldn’t worry. But then do you know what he did, that very night?’

‘No, mavourneen, I cannot be imagining,’ muttered Blackie through clenched teeth. For the first time in his life he felt the desire to kill. The idea that anyone would abuse Emma enraged him to a point of madness.