Emma’s Secret (34 page)

‘I will, Mrs. Harte. Will you need me tomorrow?’

‘It’s nice of you to offer, but you must have a rest, it’s been a very busy week. I can manage with Jack and Tomkins, I’m quite sure.’

‘I can bring one of the chaps from my department,’ Jack volunteered. ‘Dennis Scott’s a good lad, he’ll be happy to oblige.’

‘That’s a good idea, Jack. And now I’ll say goodnight to you all.’

‘Don’t you want a bit of supper, Mrs. Harte?’ Grace asked.

‘Not right now, thanks. I have some work to finish.’ She smiled at them and made her way across the kitchen.

‘Good night, Mrs. Harte,’ they chorused as she left.

The following morning Emma set off with Tomkins to the East End, following Jane and Bill Stuart Ogden in their car. The green Harte van, stacked with the hampers and carrying Jack Field and Dennis Scott, was at the rear.

When they arrived at their destination Emma was speechless, as were the rest of their group. The onslaught of bombs had been massive, and the Luftwaffe had done its work well. The streets were levelled, rubble piled everywhere. It was the most horrendous devastation the likes of which none of them had ever seen or indeed even envisioned.

They picked their way slowly and carefully over the rubble, passing out the food, saying comforting words to the men and women who were working in the piles of bricks and dust which had once been their homes.

‘Thank you, thank you,’ a woman said to Emma at one moment. ‘It’s right good of you to come and help us.’

Emma’s eyes filled, and she was unable to speak; she simply touched the woman’s arm gently and walked on.

And yet, despite the loss of their homes and the suffering they had endured, there were cheery smiles on many of the faces, and a frequent disparaging quip about the enemy would ring out, causing much laughter amongst them all.

‘How strong our people are,’ Jane said as they continued to pick their way across the rubble-strewn streets, distributing the food with Jack Field and Dennis Scott.

‘And brave,’ Emma added. Suddenly she came to an abrupt halt and grabbed hold of Jane’s arm. ‘Look! Over there! Everyone’s cheering. Isn’t that Winston Churchill?’

‘Oh my God, it is. Bill, it’s the Prime Minister. Look! Look! He’s standing over there on that pile of rubble, wearing a funny-looking hat and smoking his cigar.’

Bill Ogden followed Jane’s gaze and saw for himself that it was indeed Winston Churchill, a man whom he had admired and been devoted to for many years, always supporting him in the House of Commons.

‘Come along, ladies,’ Bill said. ‘I shall take you over there to have a word with him.’

And this he did.

A few minutes later Bill was greeting the Prime Minister, an old friend and colleague, who turned, smiling, and shook hands with Bill and Jane, and then Emma was introduced to him.

She was so awestruck and overwhelmed Emma could barely speak, but after shaking his hand she managed to say, ‘Thank you, Mr. Churchill, for inspiring us…’

‘And thank you,’ he answered, obviously realizing what their mission was this morning in the rubble-strewn East End streets.

Later one of the air-raid wardens told Bill that Winston Churchill had had tears in his eyes when he had first viewed this terrible devastation. Emma nodded, knowing that everyone loved him that much more because he was not afraid to show his emotions.

That night, when Elizabeth finally got home from the hospital, Emma saw how tired her daughter looked, and she fussed over her for a while.

‘There have been a lot of casualties,’ Elizabeth explained, as she and Emma finally sat down to eat sandwiches and drink a cup of tea in Emma’s den. ‘And this is just the beginning of the Blitz, Mummy. You’ve been saying it was going to get worse, and you were right.’

‘Unfortunately.
Frankly, I wish I’d been wrong. Our boys are up there in the air every night, fighting the Luftwaffe, and now they’ll have to be up there during the day as well.’

‘Yesterday’s raid was catastrophic,’ Elizabeth murmured. ‘But we’re going to win, Mummy, you’ve instilled that in me.’

‘No, Winston Churchill has, and our fighter pilots are very brave.’

‘I’ll never forget what Mr. Churchill said last month, when he spoke about the fighter pilots. You won’t either, will you, Mummy?’

‘No, I won’t. Actually, I wrote it in my diary to remind myself. He said, “Never in the field of human conflict was so much owed by so many to so few.” As always he got it exactly right, and he said it in his own inimitable way.’

‘They will be all right, won’t they?’ Elizabeth now asked, looking at Emma intently. ‘Tony and Robin and Bryan?’

‘Yes, they will. I believe that, I truly do, darling. I must believe it, Elizabeth, because if I have any doubts about them surviving this war I’ll fall apart…’ Tears sprang into Emma’s eyes, and she blinked them back. ‘Years ago I taught myself to be positive in the worst moments of my life. That’s what kept me going when I was a young girl, out on my own, struggling to make a living. You see, I couldn’t afford to have any negative thoughts then…and
we
can’t now.’

‘It’s nice to see you, Frank,’ Emma said, smiling at her brother. ‘But you look awfully tired and pale.’

‘I’ve always been pale, Emma, even as a child. Don’t you remember how you used to fuss around me and wrap me up in scarves. And send me out onto the moors to “get some colour in your cheeks,” you used to say.’

She laughed. ‘I know I did, and you used to get very upset with me. But you
are
all right, aren’t you, Frankie?’

‘It’s
Frankie
again, is it? Do you know you hadn’t called me that for years until quite recently?’

‘Because you told me not to when you were young. You said our mam had told you that you were a big lad, and Frankie was a baby’s name. But I like it, perhaps because it’s affectionate.’

Frank gave her a long, loving look, but said nothing. These two were very close, and he had always believed that his sister could read his mind. Whether she could or not was beside the point; she was certainly on the same wavelength as he was. ‘I am a bit tired, Emma, you’re right about that. Mostly because I’ve been working hard at the
Express.’

‘How’s the great man?’

‘Which one? Beaverbrook or Churchill?’

‘Either. Both.’ Emma leant forward now, her face lighting up as she exclaimed, ‘Frank, I met Winston Churchill. Finally and at last.’

‘When? And where?’ he asked, fully understanding her excitement. He knew it must have been a thrill for her. Churchill was her great hero.

‘I met him last Sunday, September the eighth…only four days ago, to be precise. In the East End. I’d gone with Jane and Bill Stuart Ogden to take food to those poor people who had been bombed out, and he happened to be there. Bill introduced me. He’s just extraordinary.’

‘That he is, and he often goes out to inspect the bomb damage, to talk to people. They love him for that, for his immense humanity. He reaches out to common folk, and he touches and moves them in a way few politicians can. And, of course, Bill has always been a supporter of his, so no doubt the PM was glad to see him, to see all of you. Especially since you were being so kind, and helping. We’re all going to have to pitch in now that the Blitz has started.’

‘I was so overawed I could hardly speak,’ Emma admitted with a small, embarrassed laugh.

‘I know what you mean. It’s easy to be overwhelmed by him these days. He’s a monumental man. And you’ll see, one day, in the not-too-distant future, he’ll be thought of as a legend, Emm.’

‘To me he’s a legend now. I hope he’s well protected…he is, isn’t he, Frank?’

‘Oh yes, of course he is. He spends most of his time in his various bunkers.’

‘What do you mean
bunkers?’

‘He’s got a lot of sort of…underground bolt holes, where he works and lives and sleeps. He’s not really at Number Ten Downing Street, you know. I think he pops in and out, but it’s far too dangerous. He could be so easily bombed there. Mostly he’s in the War Cabinet rooms. When he saw the room which was to be his he apparently said, “This is the room from which I will direct the war.” And that’s what he’s doing.’

‘Where are they, these War Cabinet rooms?’

‘I don’t know. Only the most privileged know that, Emma, but making a guess I’d say they’re somewhere in Whitehall.’

‘I’m glad to know the Prime Minister is in a safe place. But getting back to you, Frank, why do you have so much work at the moment?’

‘That’s a daft question for someone as smart as you, Emma. Because a lot of our young journalists have left. They’ve joined the armed services. So I’ve been writing more than usual. I enjoy it, though. I suppose the reason I’m also a bit more tired than usual is because I’m writing another novel and—’

‘Oh Frank, that’s just wonderful!’ Emma interrupted enthusiastically. ‘I love your books. What’s this one about?’

‘The war. What else?’ he said, and smiled at her. She was his biggest fan.

‘Do you think America’s going to come in to help us, now that we stand alone?’ she asked, changing the subject.

‘I’m not sure. I hope so. President Roosevelt’s a good man, and he and Churchill do seem to have a certain rapport. But he’s answerable to the American people, and they don’t want to go near this war. Oh no.’ Frank bit his lip. ‘Incidentally, the daylight bombing’s going to get worse, so be alert, Emma.’

‘You know I always am.’

‘How’s Elizabeth doing?’

‘She’s working hard. Thousands and thousands have been hurt in the last few days, you know, and she’s run off her feet at the hospital. Now she’s talking about helping out at the London Bridge tube station, where 8,000 people gather every night for safety.’

‘You can’t let her do
that!
’

‘I don’t know how to stop her. So I think perhaps I’d better go with her, to keep an eye on her, and to help those who are sheltering there.’

‘Oh, our Emma, you’re too much!’

‘Come on Frank, let’s go to lunch.’ As she spoke she rose, and together they left her office at the top of the store. ‘I think it’s a no-choice lunch today in the café.’

‘What on earth is that?’

‘Exactly what it says. No choice. Tomato soup followed by bangers and mash with fried onions. Not bad really, not when you consider there’s a war on.’

C
HAPTER
T
HIRTY
-F
OUR

W
inston Harte nodded when Emma had finished speaking, and said swiftly, ‘I think you’re absolutely correct, we do have to make changes at Yorkshire Consolidated, and this is what I propose. Let’s promote Martin Fuller to managing editor, and Peter Armstrong to managing director.’

‘But
you’re
managing director, Winston!’ Emma sat up straighter on the sofa and stared at her brother, frowning, her eyes turning anxious. ‘Please don’t tell me you want to leave the running of the newspaper company to someone else?’

‘No, not at all. Sorry, I don’t think I made myself quite clear. I ought to move up, too, become co-chairman with you, if that’s all right. I’ll still supervise, be on top of everything. But I’d feel much better knowing we had a managing director sitting at the main office in Leeds, and a managing editor alongside him. Both of them handling the day-to-day stuff right on the spot.’

‘Then we’ll do it, Winston. And frankly I’ve been worried about you lately. You’re burdened down between the Yorkshire stores, the Fairley mill, and the newspapers. And there’s also your involvement with Harte Enterprises. It’s too much.’

Winston began to laugh. ‘Listen who’s talking. There’s nobody busier than you, and on top of your work you’ve taken on so much else–you volunteer for so much war work. I don’t know how you do it all. You’re running yourself ragged.’

‘When I think of what our troops are doing to keep us safe and win this war, my burdens seem light.’

As she spoke, Emma picked up the silver Georgian teapot and poured another cup of tea for her brother and herself.

The two of them were sitting in front of the fire in the upstairs parlour at Pennistone Royal. It was 1942, and a freezing afternoon in the middle of December. Emma had been in Yorkshire for a week, reviewing her business interests with Winston, and checking out the situation on her Yorkshire estate.

Although Leeds, Bradford and Sheffield, and many of the other industrial cities in the north, had been bombed, Ripon and the Dales remained unscathed for the most part, although some Royal Air Force bases at Topcliffe and Dishforth had been near misses when the Luftwaffe had flown over. As far as Pennistone Royal was concerned, things were relatively normal, except for the food, petrol and other shortages affecting everyone in Britain.

As he sipped his tea, Winston went on, ‘Marty and Pete are good chaps, talented and hard working, and devoted to you and Consolidated. It’s going to be fine, Emma.’

‘As long as you’re sitting on top of them, then I feel secure about things, although I do agree with you that they’re
both
smart and dedicated.’ Emma shook her head and made a small
moue
with her mouth. ‘I always hoped Frank would take over the running of the newspaper company, but it’s just not for him is it, Winston?’

‘No, it’s not. He’s never been interested, not even when you bought up the Sheffield papers in 1935 and started Consolidated. You offered him the top job and he said no. So that’s that. He’s a journalist, not a manager. To each his own, Emm.’

‘He loves the
Express
and working for Lord Beaverbrook and, let’s face it, Winston, Frank is the golden boy on that paper, a favourite of the Beaver and of Arthur Christiansen as well.’ She put her cup down in the saucer, and gave Winston a long, thoughtful stare. ‘I suppose Edwin Fairley will try to cling to the
Yorkshire Morning Gazette
until the day he dies.’

Winston nodded. ‘That newspaper’s been in the Fairley family for three generations; you don’t think he’ll ever let go of it willingly, do you?’

‘No, I don’t suppose he will. But the paper’s lost a lot of its circulation.’

‘That’s because we’ve been giving it a run for its money. We’ve taken a lot of readers away.’

‘I know,’ Emma said with a small, satisfied smile. ‘But Edwin Fairley should stick to the law. He’s a much better barrister than he is a newspaper-owner, don’t you think?’

‘Remember, that plays in our favour. He’ll have to sell one day, and you’ll be able to buy it…for a song.’

‘Let’s hope you’re right. Talking of Frank, he said he and Natalie won’t be able to spend Christmas with us in London, because of her family. Do you think you can talk him into it?’

‘I do,’ Winston responded, but he looked slightly puzzled. ‘However, I don’t think I’ll have to, Emm. Frank told me only the other day that he has to be in London. He said Beaverbrook needs him for something special during Christmas, and that it’s mandatory.’

‘Oh, I’m glad. Then he will be able to come on Christmas Day after all. He’s probably not got around to telling me yet.’

‘Perhaps that’s so.’

‘You and Charlotte are coming, aren’t you? And Randolph?’

Winston’s face changed, lighting up at the mention of his son, his only child. ‘We’re keeping our fingers crossed that he’ll get leave, if only for a few days. His battleship’s up at Scapa Flow at the moment. But yes, we’re coming. What about your boys?’

‘I think Robin will be getting a two-day pass, and hopefully Kit will, too. I know he’s anxious to see June and the baby.’

Winston’s expression changed yet again, and he almost chortled as he said, ‘And what a smashing little redhead Sarah is…there’s no mistaking that she’s a Harte and
your
grandchild. She looks just like you–well, at least her colouring is the same.’

‘I can’t believe I have a second grandchild…’ Emma stopped abruptly, and sadness settled on her face as she looked across at Winston and asked, ‘Have you heard from Edwina lately? How’s her marriage, and how’s my first grandchild?’

‘I did get a short letter recently,’ Winston admitted quietly. ‘But she didn’t say very much. Little Anthony is flourishing, and Jeremy is fine. I thought he was a splendid chap, Emma, when I went to the wedding. Please don’t worry about Edwina. I’m sure she’s happy, and she’ll come round one day.’

‘I don’t know about that. Maybe it’s wishful thinking on my part.’ Unexpectedly, her face lit up with the extraordinary radiance that had always captivated everyone. ‘Just think, Winston, I’ve got a grandson who’s a lord…Lord Anthony Standish.’

He smiled, enjoying this sudden flash of pleasure in his sister. Wanting to prolong it, he moved away from the discussion of her recalcitrant and difficult daughter Edwina, and said, ‘How’s Daisy?’

‘She’s just a miracle! Of course, even though she’s now left boarding school, there’s no way she can go to a finishing school in Switzerland as Edwina and Elizabeth did. Because of the war. But she doesn’t seem to care. She’s perfectly happy living at home with me and Elizabeth, and thank God they’ve always been the closest of friends. The house is very harmonious.’

He nodded, relieved that her other two daughters were so devoted to her. Edwina irritated him at times; she was bearing a grudge that went back to her childhood, and she a woman now in her mid-thirties. Ridiculous, he thought, and made up his mind to write a stern letter to his niece. Or perhaps he would phone her at Clonloughlin in Ireland, where she lived with her husband and little son. He would talk to Frank about it; get his brother’s advice.

‘Blackie’s also coming on Christmas Day,’ Emma said, interrupting Winston’s thoughts. ‘And hopefully Bryan will get leave.’

‘What about David? Is he coming up to London too?’

‘Naturally. He’s always attended my Christmas Day lunch, you know that, Winston. The three clans are always together, it’s the one day we celebrate our long friendship. Blackie O’Neill, Emma Harte and David Kallinski. The Three Musketeers, that’s what Frank used to call us…such a long time we’ve been friends. Blackie and I met when I was only fourteen and a half, almost fifteen…in 1904. And I met the Kallinskis about a year later. Thirty-eight years or more…’

‘Of great devotion, loyalty and love between the three of you. Do you know how remarkable that is, Emma?’

‘Yes, I believe I do.’

After her brother had left to drive back to Leeds, Emma remained in the upstairs parlour, drifting with her thoughts for a while, enjoying this time of repose and reflection. She had not been here in this house for some time, caught up as she was with the store and her worldwide business enterprises in London. And the war.

She had missed Pennistone Royal, and she had missed this room. She had always thought it was distinguished by a gentle beauty. It was understated, and not at all pretentious, and yet she knew only too well that its very simplicity was deceptive. It had been achieved by a great expenditure of money when she had decorated it in 1932; she had also been both skilful and patient when she had sought out furniture, knowing that only the very best antiques would do for this splendid and ancient room.

Now, as she glanced around, she saw how well everything had held up, how beautiful it still looked after ten years. Pale yellow washed over the walls, and this soft, radiant colour gave the room a truly sunny feeling, even on the dullest of overcast Yorkshire days. A dark, highly polished wood floor gleamed against the antique Savonnerie rug that splashed its pale colours into the middle of the room. She had always loved beautiful crystal and silver, and her favourite pieces sparkled against the rich, mellow patinas of the Georgian tables, consoles and chests.

Two long sofas faced each other in front of the fireplace of bleached oak, and were covered in a colourful floral chintz with a white background. Emma smiled to herself, knowing how right she had been to buy numerous bolts of this fabric. Every few years she had the sofas reupholstered, so that the same pink, yellow, blue and red floral pattern could bloom afresh. Once she had created a decorative theme for a room she rarely changed it, simply refurbished it when this was required; always using the same decorative elements for the identical effect.

Her eyes roamed around, noting how fine the Rose Medallion china looked in the elegant Chippendale cabinet, and then she focused for a moment on the priceless Turner landscape above the fireplace. It was redolent with misty greens and blues; its poignant, bucolic setting never failed to stir her. And yet she had decided only the other day to hang it elsewhere. Certainly there was plenty of wall space, and she wanted to put a painting of Paul over the fireplace. It was the perfect spot. She wondered which to hang there, and decided it should be the one of him in his officer’s uniform. He had sat for it after the end of the Great War, and she had always thought this one in particular bore the greatest likeness to him…the way he looked when they first met.

Rising, she walked across to the leaded windows and stood looking out. The hillside opposite was covered in snow, but in spring the daffodils bloomed, and were such a wondrous sight to her, always evoking in her mind the lovely Wordsworth poem. Sighing to herself, she turned away and went back into the room, walking over to the large Queen Anne chest. It stood under a mirror, and it needed something to finish it, some sort of decorative object to give it a completed look. The fruitwood-and-silver casket, she suddenly thought. I’ll bring that up here the next time I come. It will look beautiful on top of the chest.

Moving across the floor, she went and sat down at her large desk, took out her diary for 1942, found today’s date, and wrote a few lines about her meeting with Winston and the decisions they had made about the Yorkshire Consolidated Newspaper Company. And then she put the pen down and sat back, thinking about the
Yorkshire Morning Gazette.
She had always wanted that paper, and one day she
would
own it. Edwin Fairley did not have the financial resources to keep it going. It had had staggering losses over the last few years; she was using her own Yorkshire newspapers to run his into the ground. It was the only Fairley business she did not own…once she did, her revenge would be complete.

All of a sudden she heard Blackie’s voice in her head, echoing to her down the years; he was quoting the Bible to her. ‘Revenge is mine, sayeth the Lord, and that’s the truth, Emma.’ At the time she had laughed and answered, ‘And Shakespeare wrote that revenge is a dish best served cold.’ That day she had shaken her head and laughed hollowly again, had added, ‘I want to enjoy my revenge. I’m not leaving it to the Lord or anyone else. And I’m certainly not going to serve it cold.’

Emma knew deep within herself that Edwin realized she had deliberately set out to ruin the Fairleys, and that he did not care. He knew they deserved it, and that his brother Gerald had been as responsible for their downfall as she had. In his own way, Edwin had prospered as a barrister, specializing in criminal law. The newspaper was his great folly…and he was playing into her hands, just as Gerald had done before him.

Edwina was the fruit of their brief union when she had been a servant girl at Fairley Hall and he the son of the squire, Adam Fairley. She had always done her best for Edwina, even gone that step further, and yet Edwina hated her because she had not been able to give her daughter the one thing she had always wanted: legitimacy and the Fairley name. Emma longed to see her firstborn child, and her first grandchild, little Anthony Standish…

The jangle of the telephone interrupted her thoughts.

‘Hello? Pennistone Royal.’

‘Hello, Emma. It’s Frank. I just spoke to Winston, and he asked me to let you know about Christmas. We’d love to come, all of us. Is that all right?’

‘Of course it is! Oh Frankie, I’m so pleased you’re able to make it after all. This means the family will be together…well, almost all of us. If the boys get leave.’

Thoughts of Edwin Fairley and his betrayal of her vanished. Bleak, dark memories of her terrible and painful past were expunged. And a rush of real joy at the prospect of spending Christmas with those she loved galvanized her.

Emma jumped up, almost ran out of the upstairs parlour, down the stairs, through the Stone Hall and into the kitchen.