Emma’s Secret (32 page)

Now she said, ‘Is your leg troubling you, Winston?’

He shook his head. ‘Not really, our Emm. Sometimes it’s a bit sore…the heat in the summer. It gets to me.’ He paused, then added, ‘My stump gets sore. But I’m all right, really. However, I would like a drink, love, I’m rather thirsty. It’s very close tonight.’

‘Winston, I’m sorry darling! Champagne? Or a Scotch?’

‘I’ll have a bit of the bubbly tonight, it’s lighter than Scotch. Not that there’s anything to celebrate, not with the current war news. France has gone. It has evaporated as our ally, and we are truly alone now.’

‘The Prime Minister is going to broadcast tonight,’ Frank announced, looking from one to the other. ‘He gave a magnificent speech in the House this afternoon, and he’s repeating it later, on the BBC. He wants the whole country to hear it.’

‘Oh but we
must
listen,’ Emma exclaimed, sitting up alertly.

Elizabeth said, from the doorway, ‘Yes, Mummy, it’s just been announced again. Mr. Churchill is going to be on the radio tonight. At nine o’clock, I think.’

‘Come in, darling, and say hello to your uncles.’

Smiling, Elizabeth entered the library as if gliding on air, and Emma’s brothers stood up, greeted her affectionately, embracing her with great warmth and love. They each believed that Emma’s daughter looked like their mother, Elizabeth Harte, and it endeared her to them even more.

Grace served plates of smoked salmon with lemon wedges, and thin slices of brown bread and butter, and Frank poured white wine in the tall, ruby-tinted crystal goblets. And once Grace had disappeared into the kitchen, the family began to eat the fresh Scottish salmon, as Emma talked about food shortages and rationing, and ate very little.

‘Mummy, you sound like the voice of doom,’ Elizabeth said at one moment, looking across the table. ‘Things seem fine in some areas…’

‘I’m afraid the difficult days are coming, Elizabeth, and we’re going to have to tighten our belts all around. I spoke to Mr. Ramsbotham today and suggested that he plant a few allotments at Pennistone Royal. Everybody’s starting them, you know; growing vegetables. I also suggested he use the three greenhouses to grow tomatoes and perhaps some soft fruits, rather than orchids and exotic flowers. Much more useful, don’t you think?’

‘It’s amazing, you know, how people
do
pull together,’ Winston murmured. ‘I know that half the women in the Leeds store have started knitting scarves, mittens and balaclava helmets for the troops in their spare time. I think it’s quite remarkable the way everyone has become less selfish.’

‘I do, too,’ Emma agreed. ‘And you’ve been very unselfish, Winston, letting me have Glynnis.’

‘Who’s Glynnis?’ Elizabeth asked, always curious; she was renowned in the family for asking lots of questions.

‘She’s my new secretary.’

‘What happened to Anita, Mummy?’

‘She’s going to join the Land Army. She’s leaving the store on Friday, and I think it’s most commendable of her.’

‘Anita in the Land Army! She’ll never be able to lift a shovel, she’s so delicate and petite!’ Elizabeth cried.

Emma chuckled. ‘There’s a certain truth to that, Elizabeth, but she’s very determined, and that can go a long way.’

‘So you’ve discovered Glynnis’s qualities in just two days,’ Frank murmured, glancing at Emma.

‘I certainly have. She’s going to be very good for me, I can tell that already, and we have a lot of traits in common.’

This remark startled Elizabeth, who asked swiftly, ‘Such as what?’

‘She’s quick, to begin with, and very willing. Not afraid of hard work. Determined, punctual, well organized, tidy. All the things I am.’ Looking across at Frank, she raised a brow and asked, ‘Do you know Glynnis, Frank?’

‘I don’t actually
know
her, Emm. But I’ve met her a few times when I’ve gone to pick Winston up, and he told me that she was now working for you when we spoke on the phone this afternoon.’

‘Oh, I see. She’s very—’ Emma shook her head. ‘Appealing…no,
beguiling,
that’s a better word.’

‘I’ll say!’ Winston exclaimed.

Emma stared at him but made no comment, although she was surprised at the overtones of admiration echoing in her brother’s voice.

The four of them talked about things in general after this, and Grace removed the dirty plates, served the cottage pie, and accepted, on behalf of Cook, the praise offered by Emma’s brothers. ‘Tell her it’s as good as the one Mrs. Harte usually makes,’ Frank said, once they had all finished.

‘I will, sir,’ Grace murmured as she hurried out.

‘It’s jam roll with custard for pudding,’ Elizabeth announced, looking at her uncles. ‘I know you like it…Mummy told me.’

‘A perfect choice,’ Winston replied, smiling at her warmly. Like his brother, he tended to spoil his niece, who bore such a striking resemblance to their mother Elizabeth before she had fallen ill with consumption in 1904. This is how Mam would have looked if she had been well cared for and well off, Winston thought, as he quietly studied Elizabeth. Poor Mam, she never had a chance, what with the poverty and the hard work. Winston pushed aside the sadness, suddenly not wanting to dwell on the past.

‘I think we should have coffee in the den,’ Emma said, looking from Winston to Frank. ‘After the pudding, of course. We can relax and wait for the broadcast. It’s comfortable in there.’

And so as soon as dinner was finished, they all trooped into the den situated just beyond the library. It was a pleasant room of medium size, decorated in shades of dark red and a rich deep green, furnished with comfortable armchairs and two love seats, plus a small Georgian desk where Emma sometimes worked. Silk-shaded brass lamps, a few lovely paintings and decorative objects gave the room a certain cosiness and charm.

Emma turned the radio on as everyone sat down, drinking their coffee as they waited to hear the Prime Minister.

They fell silent as the BBC announcer introduced Churchill. His rich and eloquent voice boomed out into the small den. Emma, sitting next to the radio, concentrated on every word he said. It was a long and detailed speech, and there was total silence in the den as her two brothers and her daughter paid the strictest attention to the Prime Minister’s words.

As he came to the end, Emma leaned forward slightly, clasping her hands together, waiting for his final words.

The Prime Minister paused for a split second, and then finished: ‘What General Weygand called the Battle of France is over. I expect that the Battle of Britain is about to begin. Upon this battle depends the survival of Christian civilization. Upon it depends our own British life, and the long continuity of our institutions and our Empire. The whole fury and might of the enemy must very soon be turned on us. Hitler knows that he will have to break us in this Island or lose the war. If we can stand up to him, all Europe may be free and the life of the world may move forward into broad, sunlit uplands. But if we fail, then the whole world, including the United States, including all that we have known and cared for, will sink into the abyss of a new Dark Age made more sinister, and perhaps more protracted, by the lights of perverted science. Let us therefore brace ourselves to our duties and so bear ourselves that, if the British Empire and its Commonwealth last for a thousand years, men will still say, “This was their finest hour.”’

There was a long silence in the den, and finally it was Frank who said softly, ‘Well, he’s said it all, as he always does. And he’s made it very clear…now that France has fallen, Britain does stand alone.’

‘I think what he just said is inspiring, and comforting in a way,’ Emma remarked, looking across at Frank, flicking the tears off her face with her fingertips. Clearing her throat, she added in a voice full of tears, ‘He’s told us what we have to do. We have to stand up and fight with all our might…and I know we will all do that.’

‘Yes, I agree,’ Winston interjected. ‘And you can bet the entire country listened to him tonight, just as we did. He’s all we’ve got. To inspire us, to lead us, to show us the way.’

‘We do have the troops we rescued from Dunkirk,’ Frank pointed out. ‘They will help to defend us, all 250,000 of them. In the meantime, we’d better prepare.’

‘For the Battle of Britain,’ Emma said. ‘And some battle it’s going to be.’

C
HAPTER
T
HIRTY
-T
WO

L
ater that night Emma was unable to sleep, and she finally got up, put on a dressing gown and went downstairs to the den. She sat at her desk for a short while, reading some of the balance sheets she had brought home with her, but other thoughts soon intruded, and concentration fled.

Thoughts of the war and the invasion were uppermost in her mind for a few minutes, and then, quite unexpectedly, an image of Paul danced before her eyes. She sat back in the chair, staring into space, seeing him very clearly; much more vividly than she had in months. It seemed to her that he was actually in the room with her, coming towards her. She sat very still, waiting. Then the image was gone in a flash, just like that, as if it had never been there.

‘Paul,’ she said out loud, and rose from the chair, glancing towards the open door as she did. She was quite alone, she knew that, but nevertheless she hurried out to the corridor, looked up and down. Naturally it was empty. And yet she could not shake off the feeling that he had been there with her, if only for a brief second. He had seemed so very real. Nothing like this had ever happened to her before, and she leaned against the door jamb, wondering suddenly if she were losing her mind. But of course she wasn’t: it was her imagination playing tricks on her.

Almost against her own volition, she walked down the corridor, opened a door that led to a small foyer and the lift that went down to the bachelor flat which had been Paul’s. This was situated on the ground floor of the mansion, with its own entrance at the side of the house. The actual front door in Belgrave Square led into the grand foyer of Emma’s maisonette, built on the three floors above the self-contained bachelor flat.

Going down in the lift to his flat, Emma thought of the year he had bought the mansion, given her the deeds, and then set about creating the two apartments within the house. It had been 1925. ‘It’s much more discreet,’ he had explained, and then he had grinned at her in that rather cheeky-little-boy fashion of his, and had added, ‘Naturally, I’ll be living in the maisonette with you and Daisy. My bachelor flat is for appearance’s sake.’ She remembered smiling to herself at the time, wondering who on earth he thought he was fooling with two separate establishments. Everyone knew they were together.

But he had used it from time to time, mostly when he wanted to work long hours, or to entertain business colleagues. She had rarely gone down there, and certainly only once since his death. But tonight, somehow, she had a compulsion to be in these rooms. She was not sure why. It would not bring him closer, because he had mostly been in the upper portion of the house with her and their child, and that is where she felt his presence most. And yet…something pulled her there…

Stepping out of the lift, she turned on the lights in the little foyer and was instantly struck by the wonderful masculine look of the wood-panelled walls, the dark burgundy carpet, the mahogany console table set between two straight-backed Georgian side chairs.

His favourite room had been the library, with its dark green brocade walls and French Empire antiques. He had always worked there, and she walked in, switched on a lamp and stepped across to his desk. She ran her hand along the highly polished mahogany surface, and stared for a moment at a photograph of her and Daisy with Paul, and then she sat down in his chair. Leaning back, she closed her eyes and thought of him, remembering so many things, and for a few minutes so much of the past came rushing back…remembrances of little things…forgotten things…and the tears came then…She put her head down on the desk and let them flow unchecked, and she wept in a way she had not wept since Frank had rushed to this house from Fleet Street nine months ago, bringing with him the UP wire story which told of Paul’s suicide…

‘Mummy, are you all right?’

On hearing Elizabeth’s voice, Emma slowly lifted her head and looked towards the door, where her daughter was standing. For a moment she could not speak.

Elizabeth came into the library, hesitantly, staring at her mother’s tear-stained face, her heart going out to her. ‘Oh Mummy, you’re grieving for Paul…’

Emma simply nodded. She was racked by dry sobs.

Elizabeth murmured softly, ‘I woke up, I felt so alone, and worried about Tony. And Kit and Robin, and so I came to your bedroom…I didn’t know where you were until I saw the door in the corridor wide open.’ Moving closer to her mother, she put her hand on Emma’s shoulder gently, and whispered against her hair, ‘I wish I could help you…I love you so much, Mummy…’

Turning, Emma put her arms around her daughter’s body and held her tightly, trying to control her swimming senses, her emotions. Eventually the sobs subsided, and she pulled away, and said in a choked voice, ‘I don’t usually let go like that. I’m sorry, darling.’

‘You mustn’t be sorry. You must grieve, you’ve got to get it out…that’s what Uncle Winston said to me months ago. He said I was trying to be far too brave about Paul’s death…’

Emma looked up at Elizabeth, standing there in her pale blue dressing gown matching exactly the colour of her eyes, and she nodded slowly. ‘I know you loved him.’

‘I did. He was like a father to me. And to Robin. Certainly more of a father than Arthur Ainsley ever was.’

‘I know, and Paul loved you and Robin, thought of you both as his own.’

‘Perhaps we’d better go back upstairs.’ Elizabeth looked at Emma, her expression one of puzzlement. ‘What were you doing down here?’

‘I don’t really know. I felt I had to come to the library, but there’s really nothing here.’ She took a deep breath and said in a voice that suddenly faltered, ‘All of the memories are upstairs…that’s where we lived together.’

‘Then come on, let’s go back. It’s silly staying down here, don’t you think?’

Emma nodded and stood up, and Elizabeth led her out, turning off the lights as they left the library and then the little foyer, and stepped into the lift.

Once they were back in the maisonette, Elizabeth said, ‘Go up to your bedroom, Mummy, and I’ll go and make us some hot chocolate. Don’t you think that would be nice?’

‘Yes, darling, thank you,’ Emma replied, suddenly feeling ice cold as she hurried to her bedroom on the next floor.

A short while later, Elizabeth hurried into Emma’s bedroom carrying two beakers of hot chocolate on a silver tray. After giving one of the beakers to her mother, Elizabeth took the other one for herself, put the tray on the floor and climbed into bed with Emma.

‘The hot chocolate’s going to warm you up. You felt very cold downstairs in Paul’s flat,’ Elizabeth told her, sinking back into the pillows. ‘I’m so glad I moved in here today, Mummy. We’ll be able to keep each other company when I’m not working at night.’

‘It’s nice to have you here,’ Emma said softly, and took a sip of the hot chocolate. She was considerably calmer, the tears having abated, although she was still somewhat puzzled as to why she had felt impelled to venture down to the ground-floor flat tonight.

After a small silence, Elizabeth said in a tentative, rather nervous voice, ‘Mother, can I ask you something?’

‘Of course you can.’ Emma glanced at her, frowning. ‘You sound very serious.’

‘It’s a serious question,’ Elizabeth answered quickly, ‘and perhaps I ought not to ask it.’ She cleared her throat several times. ‘Actually, Mummy, I don’t think you’re going to like it at all’

‘Well, you’d better ask it and then we’ll see, won’t we?’

Elizabeth bit her lip, made a small grimace. After a pause, and a sigh, she said slowly, ‘It’s very personal…perhaps I’d better not.’

‘Come along, darling, he who hesitates is lost. What is it you want to know?’

‘Well, it’s about Daisy.’

‘Oh.
What about her?’ Emma looked at her daughter alertly.

‘She’s not my
full
sister, is she?’

Emma gaped at her.

Elizabeth, seeing Emma’s startled expression, hurried on, ‘She’s not Arthur Ainsley’s child, is she?’

It was Emma’s turn to hesitate, but only for a split second. ‘No, she’s not, even though she bears his name. And you’re right, she’s your half-sister.’ Emma answered in a steady voice, knowing only the truth would do now.

‘She’s Paul’s daughter, isn’t she, Mother?’

Emma nodded.

‘I’ve thought so for quite a long time, and so has Robin. But we never dared ask you.’

‘And what gave you the courage tonight?’ Emma stared at Elizabeth, her vivid green eyes narrowing slightly as they grew flinty.

‘I felt suddenly very close to you downstairs, Mummy, and I know I’m much more grown-up these days. And the world’s falling apart around us, and the boys are in danger; actually, everyone’s in danger. And, oh what the hell, Mummy, why does it matter that her father’s Paul?’

‘I know what you mean, Elizabeth. The times have suddenly been turned upside down, and the world seems to be in chaos, and we’re about to be invaded. Suddenly we all know what our real priorities are. However, I do think it matters to me, and more importantly, to Daisy, because she doesn’t know Paul is her father. And you mustn’t tell her.’

‘Are you sure she doesn’t know?’ Elizabeth sounded sceptical.

‘Positive.
Why are you staring at me like that?’

‘But she
looks
so much like him. Don’t you think she realizes that, Mother?’

‘No, I don’t. Now you must promise me that you will not betray my confidence in you by telling her,’ Emma insisted.

Elizabeth exclaimed irately, ‘I would never break a confidence, Mother! You always taught me to be honourable. And I won’t tell Robin, if you don’t want me to.’

‘I’d prefer to tell him myself when the time is right,’ Emma replied.

‘You
are
going to tell Daisy who her father is, was, I mean, aren’t you?’

‘Yes, when she’s older. She’s only fifteen, Elizabeth. Sometimes I think you forget that.’

‘Well she seems a lot older, perhaps because she was always with you and Paul, and never with children her own age.’

‘That’s silly, she was with you and Robin a great deal of the time.’

‘But we were away at school…latterly, anyway.’

‘That’s true. And of course I will tell her, how could you ever think I wouldn’t? Any child would be proud to claim Paul McGill as their father.’

‘I am,’ Elizabeth said, and squeezed her mother’s hand. ‘He was so good to us…Robin feels the same way.’

‘Yes…’ Emma’s voice trailed off, and she put the beaker down on the bedside table, leant back against the mound of pillows, closing her eyes.

Elizabeth now fell silent, and so did Emma, and mother and daughter were lost, for a while, in their own thoughts. It was Elizabeth who broke the silence between them when she said, ‘I think Edwina is being rather beastly, the way she is hiding herself away in the bogs of Ireland, incommunicado. I do think she could have brought her husband to meet us, and brought the baby over, too. After all, you’re the child’s grandmother. Don’t you agree, Mummy?’

‘It would have been nice, Elizabeth, but Edwina’s rather angry these days, and most especially with me. I don’t think we’ll be seeing her soon, I really don’t.’

‘It’s her loss, and she’s such a fool. I don’t think she has a right to be angry. You’ve been a wonderful mother to all of us. We’ve been lucky.’

‘I’m glad you think that, darling.’

‘Why did Paul kill himself?’

The question, coming out of the blue, shocked Emma, threw her, and it took her a few moments to recover. ‘This is the first time you’ve ever admitted you knew that…I thought you all believed Paul had died of his injuries.’

‘Not really, Mummy.’

‘He knew he wouldn’t have long to live…’ Emma began. ‘There was no way to treat him. He would have died of kidney failure in a few months…he knew he couldn’t get back here in time to see us. I suppose he wanted to take control of his life again…his destiny.’

‘I see.’

Emma was silent, thinking about Paul’s last letter, wondering if she should show it to Elizabeth. She was a married woman now, and living with the dangers of war, and much more grown-up than she had been even a few months ago. And yet Emma hesitated. The letter was so very personal, meant for her eyes only. And perhaps one day for Daisy’s. No, she would not get it out of the casket. Not yet, not tonight…

But much later, when she was alone, Emma got out of bed and went to her dressing room. She unlocked the fruitwood-and-silver casket which stood on a chest and took out the letter which had arrived from Australia just after Paul’s death. Then she returned to the bedroom.

Sitting down on the bed, she took the letter out of its envelope and read it again, as she had read it so many times before:

My dearest darling Emma:

You are my life. I cannot live without my
life. But I cannot live with you. And so I must end my miserable existence, for there is no future for us together now. Lest you think my suicide an act of weakness, let me reassure you that it is not. It is an act of strength and of will, for committing it I gratefully take back that control over myself which I have lost in the past few months. It is a final act of power over my own fate.

It is the only way out for me, my love, and I will die with your name on my lips, the image of you before my eyes, my love for you secure in my heart always. We have been lucky, Emma. We have had so many good years together and shared so much, and the happy memories are alive in me, as I know they are in you, and will be as long as you live. I thank you for giving me the best years of my life.

I did not send for you because I did not want you to be tied to a helpless cripple, if only for a few months at the most. Perhaps I was wrong. On the other hand, I want you to remember me as I was, and not what I have become since the accident. Pride? Maybe. But try to understand my reasons, and try, my darling, to find it in your heart to forgive me.