Joe smiled at her. ‘I never thought she’d make such a go of it when she took that first shop. But she proved me wrong, and a lot of others as well.’

‘Aye, lad, she’s a right good tenant for yer,’ Mrs Hewitt conceded.

‘What’s for supper?’ Joe asked, warming his hands. ‘It smells good.’

‘I can’t be taking no credit for yer dinner tonight, Joe,’ the old woman replied. ‘I bought yer a steak-and-kidney pie from Mrs Harte’s, being as how yer liked the last one.’

‘It sounds grand, Mrs Hewitt.’

‘I was talking to Laura Spencer today, in the haberdashery, and do yer know, that wedding dress they’re making for me cousin’s lass is one of Mrs Harte’s own designs. Miss Spencer told me that Mrs Harte is going to be designing clothes for one of them big factory places in Leeds.’

‘So I understand,’ said Joe.

‘Fancy that and yer never told me, Joe.’

‘It didn’t occur to me, Mrs Hewitt. Is it so important?’

‘Of course it is, Joe. Anything ter do with Emma Harte is important. Why, everybody thinks she’s a right luvely young woman. So polite and dignified. The talk of Town Street with her fancy shops. And such a bonny lass.’ She carried the bowl of turnips to the oven and continued, ‘Would yer like a beer, Joe? I’ve got one cooling on the cellar head.’

‘I wouldn’t say no, Mrs Hewitt. Thank you.’ Joe lit his pipe and settled back in the chair, warming his damp feet.

‘Well, it’s all ready now, Joe,’ Mrs Hewitt proclaimed. ‘I’ve finished the pots and yer supper’ll stay nice and warm in the oven, luvey. Drink yer beer first, and then yer can help yerself later. I’ll have ter be off. Ta’rar.’

Later, after he had read the paper, Joe took out the meat pie and vegetables and settled down to his supper. He had just finished eating when a loud banging on the door brought him up with a start. The door burst open to admit a flurry of snowflakes along with Mrs Minton, one of his tenants. Her face was purple and from the furious glint in her eyes Joe knew this was not caused by the icy wind but rather by her roiling temper.

‘Good heavens, Mrs Minton-’ he began.

‘Don’t Mrs Minton me, Joe Lowther!’ she yelled. ‘It’s a crime! A bloody crime. I just knew it! Ever since she moved in I knew she was after me shop. And when yer rented her that other one on t’corner I told me husband it wouldn’t be long before she had me out. There I am, plonk in the middle, between her food shop and her haberdashery, and she’s aiming ter squeeze and squeeze till she get’s me out inter the middle of Town Street. Yer can’t deny I’m right!’ The enraged Mrs Minton paused for breath, her hands on her hips, her stance defiant.

‘Please, Mrs Minton, calm down. I don’t know what on earth you’re talking about.’

‘I’m talking about Emma Harte, that’s what! She wants me shop! I don’t need a crystal bloody ball ter tell me that. She wants ter expand inter me shop. The shop I’ve had for ten years. The commercial travellers think she’s no good, hoitytoity stuck-up Mrs Harte. Lady Muck, they calls her. Cutting ‘em out, she is, going ter the manufacturers and warehouses herself and buying directly, instead of from the travellers. Then she slashes her prices so’s nobody else in Town Street can get a sale in edgewise. Aye, she’s a crafty cunning bitch, that Emma Harte is.’

‘Mrs Minton!’ Joe bellowed. ‘Emma Harte is a nice girl and she works hard. She isn’t trying to squeeze you out. She’s simply running her shops in a businesslike manner.’ Joe stared with distaste at the slovenly woman in her filthy coat and grimy scarf. She was a living reflection of her dirty shop, which was a triumph of confusion and run in the most slipshod manner imaginable.

‘Aye, I bloody expected yer ter defend her,’ Mrs Minton shouted. ‘I told me husband I wouldn’t be getting nowheres with yer. Stands ter reason yer’d watch out for yer fancy woman! Aye, and don’t look like that. We all knows what’s going on between the both of yer!’ She took a step nearer to Joe and peered into his face, hissing, ‘Yer fancy woman, that’s what Emma bloody Harte is, and she a married woman! I’m surprised yer haven’t put a bun in her oven already. But time will tell, me lad.’

Joe had blanched. ‘Why, you foul-mouthed, despicable old woman. There is nothing between Mrs Harte and myself, other than a business relationship. And you’d better watch your words, Mrs Minton, or you’ll find yourself the recipient of a writ for slander. I will not tolerate this kind of disgusting talk!’

Mrs Minton leaned forward and waved the rent book she was clutching under his nose. Joe thought she was going to strike him with it. ‘I think you had better leave, Mrs Minton,’ he said icily. ‘Before I really lose my temper. I’ve just about had enough of you.’

With a toss of her head she swung on her heels and marched to the door. She looked back, her eyes blazing with animosity, and she shouted, ‘Well, she’s not going ter have the satisfaction of squeezing me out, because I’m leaving on me own account! And yer can take yer bloody rent book and shove it!’ She flung the rent book across the room at Joe and it landed in the custard flan.

The door banged behind her. Joe stared at the rent book floating in the custard, fished it out, and carried it to the sink, wiping it clean with the dishcloth. He looked inside. Miserable old battle-axe, he thought, she owes me a month’s rent. He knew he would have to whistle for that. He did not care.

Joe was horrified at the things Mrs Minton had said about Emma and himself. Surely they must have been uttered out of her consuming spite. Or did everyone in the neighbourhood really believe there was something between them? ‘Fancy woman’ was not a prestigious name to pin on a woman. It was just another way of saying tart. He might have guessed some people would talk, if only the likes of Mrs Minton. But he had never laid a finger on Emma, and he felt a flush rising to flood his face. It was with a rush of guilt that he recalled those nights when he lay awake in his chaste bed, hardly able to breathe, his desire for Emma blazing until he could not bear it. For desire her he did. On those terrible nights he envisioned himself running his hands over Emma’s beautiful body, pressing his mouth to hers, stroking her firm breasts, and ultimately taking her to him passionately. He shivered and closed his eyes, trying to obliterate those erotic images, those lustful and sensuous fantasies that haunted him.

After a few moments Joe felt calmer. Wanting a woman and craving to possess her was one thing, but it was scarcely a reality, and he resented the ghastly implications of Mrs Minton’s words. Joe sighed wearily, recognizing that Emma had ruined the harridan’s business, albeit unintentionally. She made sure her products and the shops themselves were more appealing and attractive than others in the vicinity. Her specialities, such as her delicious homemade foodstuffs, were renowned, as was her dressmaking, and she had captured the carriage trade for miles around. With her audacity and her merchandising, her two shops had become the busiest in Town Street in just under three years, and her profits were high. Joe was aware of that from his weekly inspection of her ledgers. So enormously high, in fact, she could now afford to invest two thousand pounds in David’s business, as he himself intended to do. That kind of success was guaranteed to provoke jealousy and vicious talk.

Joe stood up, determined not to dwell on Mrs Minton’s accusations. He would go and see Emma right away and tell her that Mrs Minton was about to vacate the premises. Emma could now have her third shop. Although she had never said a word to Joe, he knew that she had been angling for it for some time. It made sense, he had to admit that. With Mrs Minton gone Emma could indeed expand and the three adjoining shops would be like the department store she envisioned owning one day. He caught sight of the clock. It was well turned nine. He shrugged. To hell with the neighbours. I don’t care what they believe. He went upstairs to put on a clean shirt.