Emma’s Secret (31 page)

C
HAPTER
T
HIRTY
-O
NE

B
y the end of Tuesday afternoon Emma knew how right her brother had been about Glynnis Jenkins. Aside from the fact that the Welsh girl was willing and efficient, she had a way about her that was most appealing. This had a lot to do with her personality, which was warm and outgoing, and Glynnis had a great deal of natural charm.

Emma found her pleasing to have around. She was lovely to look at, and a deep and sincere person, with nice manners and a gentle, rather quiet demeanour. It seemed to Emma that she was brighter than average, and certainly not afraid of hard work or long hours. ‘Glynnis is quite a find,’ she said to Winston on the phone. ‘And unless I’m very mistaken, I think she’s going to be around here for a long time.’

Winston laughed knowingly. ‘I told you, Emma, I knew you’d want to keep her. There’s something about her that’s…quite irresistible, that’s the only word I can think of, to be honest. I used to believe she was too good to be true, but I discovered she’s the real thing: a genuinely
nice
young woman.’

‘She has a lot going for her,’ Emma murmured. ‘I’m grateful to have her, Winston, thanks so much.’ Then, changing the subject, she asked, ‘Would you like to come to supper?’

‘I would. But on one condition.’

‘Oh, and what’s that?’

‘I don’t want you faffing around in the kitchen with Mrs. Coddington. Let her make the dinner and I’ll come.’

‘Don’t you like my cooking any more? You used to,’ she shot back.

‘I do, but you work too hard to start preparing meals when you get home. Anyway, what I’d like for dinner is a very simple dish. Cottage pie and peas, which Mrs. Coddington can make by herself.’

Emma laughed. ‘That’s it? Nothing to start with?’

‘Whatever you like, as long as it’s not soup.’

‘I’ll see you around six, Winston, and the rest of the dinner will remain a surprise.’

After she had hung up the receiver, Emma stacked her briefcase with reports and balance sheets, and walked across her office. As she went out into the secretarial area adjoining, Glynnis instantly jumped to her feet behind her desk, and said, ‘Is there anything I can do for you, Mrs. Harte?’

‘No, no, but thank you, Glynnis. I’m a little tired today and so I decided to go home early. I can easily do a little work there.’

‘Shall I come with you, Mrs. Harte?’

‘That’s very sweet of you to offer, but there’s not much you could do for me, to be honest. I’m taking home a pile of reading. But thank you for offering.’

Glynnis gave her a shy smile. ‘You just have to say the word, and I’ll be there.’

‘Thanks again, Glynnis.’ Emma smiled in return and left the executive offices.

Tomkins was waiting in front of the store, and as Emma got into the Rolls, assisted by the store’s doorman, she picked up at once on the gloomy atmosphere that prevailed. ‘Hello, Tomkins.’

‘Good afternoon, Mrs. Harte.’

‘I’m going straight home.’

‘Yes, madam.’

‘The news is not too good today, is it?’ she said, settling back against the seat.

‘Never been worse, Mrs. H. The whole bloomin’ country’s been knocked back on its ar—.’ He coughed, and swiftly corrected himself. ‘Knocked on its behind. Nobody thought the Frenchies were going to…collapse the way they did. We’re on our own now, madam. It’s just us against the Nazis.’

‘We’ll be all right, Tomkins.’

‘We don’t have much choice, Mrs. H. It’s beat them afore they beat us.’

‘Are you thinking of leaving me, Tomkins? Joining up, maybe?’

‘Oh no, Mrs. Harte. I’m not Ai fit, otherwise I might go in the army. Act’lly, I’ve got flat feet, Mrs. H. Not serious when it comes to driving a car and life in civvie street, but they don’t like flat-footed soldiers in the army. Oh no.’

‘I understand,’ Emma murmured, trying not to laugh. There were times when Tomkins was quite droll; she often had to stifle a chuckle.

But he was right. The news was not only bad, it was disastrous. The French High Command had fled Paris several days ago, and the Germans had marched into the capital and captured Paris without one shot being fired.

They were indeed on their own, as Tomkins had just said so dourly, and the whole of England was traumatized by the news that their only ally was no longer fighting alongside them.

‘Hello, Mummy darling!’ Elizabeth exclaimed as Emma came through the front door of the Belgravia house. Running across the marble foyer, she embraced her mother most enthusiastically, and then said, ‘I hope you don’t mind, but I’ve decided to move in with you. I’ve come
home,
Mummy.’

‘So I see,’ Emma replied, smiling as she glanced around at the suitcases scattered across the hall. ‘What about your little flat in Chelsea?’

‘I’ve given it up. It was all right for one person, but Tony can hardly
fit
into it, and anyway, he’s not likely to get any leave soon, not with what’s going on in France.’ Elizabeth blew out air, and continued in a rush of words, ‘Besides, he’ll be much more comfortable
here
when he does get leave, don’t you think? And anyway, Mummy, I didn’t want you to be lonely.’

Emma glanced away to hide a smile; Elizabeth was so transparent, and at times so without guile. ‘I’m happy you’ve come home. And you’re always welcome, darling…you’re a tonic to have around. Let’s ask Grace to help us upstairs with your luggage.’

‘Oh, she’s up in my room already, unpacking for me, Mummy. I’ll carry some more of the cases, don’t you worry. We can do it together, Grace and I.’ Hurrying to the bottom of the grand curving staircase, Elizabeth picked up two bags and started to climb the stairs. Halfway up she stopped, and turned around. ‘I forgot, Uncle Frank called. He’s invited himself to sups, and he hopes that’s all right. He said Uncle Winston had told him about the cottage pie and peas and he couldn’t help but invite himself.’

‘I see. I’d better go and talk to Cook, explain about the guests and the cottage pie.’

‘Oh, I already did that!’ Elizabeth cried. ‘I thought I’d better alert her. I hope you don’t mind, but Uncle Frank said you’d left the office and I didn’t know where you were. Actually, I didn’t realize you were on your way home. You’re usually so late at the store.’

‘I felt a bit tired,’ Emma explained.

‘Are you all right? You’re not ill or anything, are you?’ There was a surprised note in Elizabeth’s voice, and her expression was worried. She remained standing on the stairs, gazing down at her mother.

‘I’m not ill, Elizabeth. Only a bit tired. Now scoot, get unpacked and settled in. Are you sure you don’t want me to help you?’

‘No, you go and have a rest. I can manage.’

Frank Harte was thrilled to see his sister looking so well tonight. He watched her closely, with much love in his heart, as she moved lithely around the small library of her house.

Emma was wearing a white silk shirt, man-tailored, with long, full sleeves, and a pair of well-cut black linen trousers, and he thought she looked superbly elegant. And glamorous, with her new shorter hairdo and subtle make-up that enhanced her great natural beauty.

When he had last seen her two weeks ago, he had noticed the new hairstyle and also that she had put away her black mourning clothes, and this had made a vast improvement in her appearance. But this evening she was finally back to looking like her old self, he decided, and this pleased him.

He had worried about his sister excessively for the last nine months, ever since he had been the one to break the news to her about Paul McGill’s unexpected death. He would never forget that terrible night as long as he lived. She had gone into shock, and at times seemed so demented he wondered aloud to Winston whether she would ever come out of it. The two of them had kept vigil over her for hours, until she had fallen into a drugged sleep.

Emma was implacable, and she had a will of iron, and after weeks of searing grief she had suddenly taken total control of her feelings and pulled herself together.

‘I have Paul’s child to look after, to bring up,’ she had said to him one afternoon. ‘Our daughter needs me, and I mustn’t fail her, Frank. I’m all she has.’ From that moment on she had displayed nothing but self-discipline, unselfishness and practicality. Of course the latter came very easily to her, Frank was the first to know that. Emma was an absolute pragmatist–had been since they were children growing up together in Fairley village on top of the Yorkshire moors.

Fairley village…good God, he hadn’t thought about that place in years. A series of grim pictures flitted through his head, and he shivered involuntarily. But he knew within himself that the village hadn’t been quite so dreadful as he sometimes liked to imagine. It was the circumstances of their life there that had been so disheartening at times. Not inside the cottage, where they had all lived so happily together, but outside, where the disturbances and troubles somehow always affected
them.

And then there were the memories of the terrible things that had happened…memories so clear, so vivid, so heartbreaking: Their mother’s untimely death, Winston running away to join the navy when he was underage, then Emma’s strange disappearance, and finally his father’s tragic and unnecessary death.

In the inner recesses of his mind, Frank remembered with total clarity the day his father had rushed into the burning woollen shed at Fairley mill…to rescue Edwin Fairley, trapped beneath burning bales of wool and a fallen beam. Big Jack Harte, their father, had not thought of himself, only of rescuing the young master. He had pulled Edwin out of that fiery wreckage and been badly burned himself in the process. Their father had died a few days later from his burns and excessive smoke inhalation. And Frank had been left on his own; well, not actually alone, since there had been Auntie Lily to look after him.

Deep within himself Frank could not abide the name Fairley, and he had, over the years, secretly and silently cheered Emma on as she had slowly ruined the Fairleys and acquired everything that had belonged to them. She had even bought that hideous mansion, Fairley Hall, where she had once been employed as the kitchen maid. But wisely, Frank had always thought, she had torn that house down, brick by brick, until there was nothing left standing, and all the memories were expunged. And eventually she had turned the grounds of Fairley Hall into a park for the villagers, and named it in memory of their mother, Elizabeth Harte. Today Emma owned Fairley village in its entirety: the Fairley mill, the Fairley brickyard; everything that had once been theirs was now hers…

‘Champagne, Frankie?’

He stared at Emma, a brow lifting. She hadn’t called him Frankie since he was a boy…had she somehow zeroed in on his thoughts, albeit unconsciously? he wondered. ‘I’d like that, Emma,’ he said at last. ‘Do you have any of the Pol Roger left?’

‘I certainly do, and it’s sitting over there in the ice bucket.’ She smiled at him, and glided across to the console, where bottles of alcohol and crystal glasses were kept. She opened the bottle carefully. ‘And I think I know who got
you
into the habit of drinking Pol Roger,’ she murmured as she popped the cork.

‘You like it, too.’

‘I do, Frank. But I was referring to the great man. Didn’t he start you on this particular brand?’

‘By great man, I am assuming you mean the Beaver?’

‘Not actually, Frankie, although I’m the first to agree with you that Lord Beaverbrook is a great man and a wonderful newspaper publisher-proprietor. I think the
Daily Express
gets better every day.’

Frank grinned knowingly. ‘Now that the Beaver’s back in government, the Churchill government to be exact, the slant of the paper is powerfully for Winston, rather than against him. I think that’s who you’re referring to, isn’t it?’

Emma simply smiled again, and carried two flutes of Pol Roger over to Frank, who was sitting next to the open window on this warm June evening. He took one and raised it to her.

They clinked glasses and said ‘cheers’ together, and then Emma sat down in the chair opposite her brother. ‘I
was
referring to the Prime Minister when I mentioned Pol Roger, that’s true. You told me he had served that at lunch the day you went to interview him over two years ago, when he was still in…
limbo,
I suppose one would call it.’

‘He did serve it, yes, and I did acquire a taste for it. You’re right…what a great man he is, Emm. For six years, no, longer even, he warned us and the world that Germany was rearming and dangerous. Nobody listened—’

‘But they certainly do now!’ she interjected.

Frank nodded. ‘Do you like the way the paper’s looking?’

‘I do, Frank. It’s very modern, very clean. That’s Arthur Christiansen’s doing, isn’t it?’

‘That’s correct. He’s a wonderful chap, we all like him. He’s a fine editor, and he has certainly given me my head, with the blessing of the Beaver, of course, who gets to read every piece I write before Chris can let it go. Control, eh?, wouldn’t you say? But it doesn’t bother me, we’re all of like mind these days. Just let’s win this bloody war.’

‘What’s the feeling in Fleet Street…about Churchill?’ Emma now asked, looking at Frank carefully, giving him a long, hard stare, always keen to get his opinion.

‘He’s damned popular these days, Winston is.’

‘Are you talking about me?’ Winston Harte asked, as he came into the room, grinning from ear to ear.

‘I was talking about Winston as in Churchill, not as in Harte,’ Frank said, jumping up, going to shake Winston’s hand. The brothers half embraced, quickly, and Winston moved across the room, went to sit in one of the chairs near a small end table.

Watching him walk slowly, leaning on his stick, Emma decided that his limp was more pronounced than it had been for quite a while. When he was in the Royal Navy he had lost his leg towards the end of the Great War; he had fought to keep it but he had lost the battle in the end. Shrapnel had been embedded in the calf of his left leg; even though the shrapnel had been removed, the leg had not properly healed. Gangrene had set in and travelled rapidly up his leg, and it was only because of Emma’s intervention that he had lived. She had forced him to agree to the amputation of his leg when the gangrene was already above his knee and travelling fast. She thought now of the months afterwards and his recuperation, and how he had learned to wear an artificial leg made of aluminium, to stomach the pain of it, to endure the endless, torturous hours of learning to walk on it. Long after those long endless months, she had thought of her brother as one of the bravest men she had ever met. She had witnessed his pain and his suffering and what it had taken, and her heart had gone out to him. But he had mastered the artificial limb, and most people thought he merely had a stiff leg.