‘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.

Emma sat in front of the fire in the parlour of Laura’s house, staring morosely into space, her mind weighted down with a problem; a problem that pushed all else to one side. She had lived with it for the last few days, ever since the baby had been born. Now she knew it must be solved, and imminently. Emma had many imperatives, but taking precedence was her concern for her child. It was essential that she make a decision about the baby’s immediate future. She could not afford to pro-crastinate.

Emma shivered, suddenly aware of a coldness in her legs, a numbing aching in her bones. She bestirred herself heavily, not as swift of movement as usual, picked up the poker and drove it into the logs in the fireplace, angrily as if to ventilate her sense of helplessness. The logs fell apart, sputtered, and flooded the room with the brightest of lights that illuminated its shining neatness, its cosy comfort.

The light glanced across the child lying at her feet in the makeshift cot, which Laura had fashioned out of a drawer and had lined with thick blankets and downy pillows. The baby lay on her side, her fluff of silver-blonde hair shimmering in the firelight, her round pink face turned to Emma, her tiny hand curled in a miniature fist next to her delicate mouth. She slept in perfect peace. This child was hers. Part of her. How could she ever give her up? Quite unexpectedly, a fierce sense of protectiveness invaded Emma and that single-mindedness of purpose to succeed, to rise above her circumstances, was strongly reinforced. ‘I won’t let anything happen to you!’ she whispered softly but with vehemence to the sleeping child. ‘I won’t! And you’ll have the best that money can buy. I promise you that!’