A Woman of Substance (94 page)

‘I wish you would, darling. I do worry about him.’ Emma looked into the fire reflectively, and when she turned back to Blackie her expression was sorrowful. ‘How does one go on, Blackie? It’s so hard, isn’t it?’

‘Yes, but not impossible, Emma. Not for someone with your courage.’

‘I haven’t been very strong these past few weeks,’ she said drearily.

‘You can’t rush it, Emma. You’ll have a lot of readjusting to do. You must give yourself time, darlin’.’

‘However did you manage after Laura died?’ she asked.

‘I sometimes wondered that myself at the time.’ He smiled faintly. ‘After I went back to the front I tried my damnedest to catch a bullet, to get myself killed. But the good Lord protected me from me own foolishness. After the war it took me a long time to forgive myself for being alive, but once I did I started to live again. I looked around and became aware of my responsibilities, my duty to Bryan. He was a great help, Emma. A great source of sustenance. As Daisy will be for you.
That child, of all your children, is the most like you in character. She understands you and she worships you, mavourneen.’

‘Yes, I know,’ Emma responded quietly, and looked away again. ‘I just—just—just don’t know how I can go on without Paul.’

Blackie took her hand and held it tightly. ‘You can, darlin’.
You will.
The human soul has great fortitude.’ He paused and his black eyes swept over her piteous face. He said gently, ‘Do you remember what Laura said to you when she was dying? I’ve never forgotten the words since you repeated them to me, and they have helped me many times. Do you remember what she said about death, Emma?’

Emma nodded. ‘Yes, I remember her words as if she had spoken them only yesterday. Laura said there was no such thing as death in her lexicon, and that as long as I lived and you lived she would live, too, for we would carry the memory of her in our hearts for ever.’

Blackie said, ‘Aye, mavourneen, and she was a wise lady, my Laura. She truly believed that, as I have come to believe it, and as you must. It will help you, I know. And just as I have Bryan, you have Paul’s daughter. She is part of his flesh, part of him, and you must cleave to that and take strength from it.’

His words seemed to give her comfort and so he continued. ‘You also told me Laura said God doesn’t give us a burden that is too heavy to bear. She
was
right, Emma. Think on that.’ He sighed under his breath. ‘I know you are heartbroken and that you feel lost and alone. But none of us are alone, Emma. We all have God, and God has helped me over the years. Why don’t you try Him on for size?’

Emma’s eyes widened. ‘You know I don’t believe in God.’

Observing the look on her face, Blackie refrained from making any further comments and wisely talked of other things.

But later, when he left Emma’s house, Blackie walked to the Brompton Oratory. He crossed himself on entering that fine old church, sat down in a pew, and lifted his face to the altar. And he prayed to God to give Emma comfort and courage in her crushing loss, and he prayed for her soul.

Before she went to bed that night, Emma sat at the window
in her bedroom for several hours, dwelling on those words of Laura’s. The sky was a peculiar cobalt blue, clear yet intense, and shining with hundreds of stars, and a pale silver moon rode high in the heavens. Its beauty was so perfectly revealed to her it made her catch her breath and she suddenly had the most overwhelming sense of the Infinite. It was a feeling she had never experienced before and she was strangely moved as she sat gazing at that incredible night sky. And then it seemed to her that Paul was with her in the room. And she thought: But of course he is, for he is in my heart always. And she drew strength from this knowledge, and that night she slept a deep and untroubled sleep.

Two days later Emma received a letter from Paul. It had been posted the day before his death and it had taken three weeks to arrive. She looked at it for a long time before she finally found the courage to slit open the envelope and take out the letter.

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 by 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.

I have great faith in you, my dearest Emma. You are not faint of heart. You are strong and dauntless, and you will go on courageously. You must. For there is our child to consider. She is the embodiment of our love, and I know you will cherish and care for her, and bring her up to be as brave and as stalwart and as loving as you are yourself. I give her into your trust, my darling.

By the time you receive this I will be dead. But I will live on in Daisy. She is your future now, my Emma. And mine.

I love you with all my heart and soul and mind, and I pray to God that one day we will be reunited in Eternity.

I kiss you, my darling.

Paul

Emma was motionless in the chair, clutching the letter, the tears seeping out of her eyes and rolling silently down her pale cheeks. She saw him in her mind’s eye, tall and handsome, his deep violet eyes laughing, and she remembered him as he wanted her to remember him. She thought of the years and the joy and love he had given her. And she forgave him, now understanding, and with great compassion, both his dilemma and his motives.

At the beginning of October, Mel Harrison took a four-engined ‘C Class’ Qantas flying boat from Sydney to Karachi, and there boarded an English aeroplane that provided the link to Great Britain. Several days later he arrived in London. His purpose: to see Emma and present Paul McGill’s will to the solicitors who handled the McGill legal work in England and Europe.

Emma, austerely dressed in black, appeared wan and fragile, yet she was composed when she arrived at Price, Ellis, and Watson for the reading of Paul McGill’s last will and testament. Winston, Frank, and Henry Rossiter accompanied her.

‘Paul made you the executrix of his estate,’ Mel informed her as she sat down. She was taken by surprise, but she simply nodded, at a loss for words.

There were bequests to servants, to old and loyal employees, and a two-million-pound trust fund had been created to provide for his wife and son during their lifetimes. Upon their deaths it was to go to charity. His entire estate he had willed to Emma in perpetuity, passing to Daisy upon her death, and from Daisy to her progeny. To Emma’s astonishment Paul had left her everything he owned, holdings worth well over two hundred million pounds. He had made her one of the richest women in the world and their daughter the heiress to a great fortune. But the thing that moved Emma the most was the fact that Paul had accorded her the respect and consideration generally reserved for a man’s legal widow and not his common-law wife. In death, as in life, Paul had declared his devotion and love for her, had acknowledged her to the whole world. And into her hands had passed the McGill dynasty for safekeeping.

Emma’s grief was a mantle of iron, but slowly she came to grips with her heartache. In all truth, her sorrow did not really lessen and she missed Paul and yearned for him constantly, but she took control of her emotions, and as the weeks passed she began to function like her old self. Also, her anguish was muted by the circumstances of her life and the world crisis which had developed.

She was beset by the most pressing problems as England plunged into the European conflict, and consequently her energies were taxed to the fullest, leaving little time or strength for self-indulgences. Her sons joined the forces, Kit enlisting in the army, Robin in the Royal Air Force.

Elizabeth, who had enrolled at the Royal Academy of Dramatic Art in the summer of 1939, was quietly married to
Tony Barkstone during the Christmas holidays. Although Elizabeth was only eighteen and still too flighty to marry, in Emma’s opinion, she did not have the heart to object. Everyone had to grasp happiness when they could, especially in these terrible times, and, in spite of her misgivings, she gave her blessing. The young couple were obviously head over heels in love, and Emma approved of Tony, who was a friend of Robin’s from Cambridge and also a pilot in the RAF.

Despite the austerity, a spirit of gaiety prevailed at the wedding and all of the family were briefly reunited, with the exception of Edwina, who was still estranged from Emma, and Kit, who was unable to get leave. June, his wife of one year, came up to London for the occasion and stayed with Emma through the New Year. In January of 1940, Elizabeth dropped out of the Royal Academy to become a Red Cross nurse, much to Emma’s amazement. ‘But I thought you always dreamed of being a famous actress and seeing your name in lights,’ she exclaimed when she heard the news. ‘Oh, phooey to all that nonsense,’ Elizabeth quickly responded. ‘I feel I must be part of the war effort, too, Mummy.’ Emma was soon impressed by Elizabeth’s seriousness and her dedication to nursing, and she began to think the marriage would be the stabilizing influence her most wayward child needed.

The news grew more distressing by the day, and in March Emma contemplated sending Daisy to America to live with the Nelsons at their Hudson River estate. But the more she thought about it, the more she balked, acknowledging that the transatlantic crossing could be hazardous, and she decided that the child’s present location at boarding school in Ascot was probably the safest place.

As the year progressed, Emma threw herself into work with a vengeance, but she welcomed the distraction it offered. Henry Rossiter, who had handled some of her business in the past, became her financial adviser on a full-time basis, since she now had all the McGill holdings to supervise as well as her own. She was in constant touch with Mel Harrison in Sydney and Harry Marriott in Texas, and her days were longer and more arduous than ever before as her responsibilities increased. But she took everything in her stride. She was the
dynamo she had been in her youth, and most especially during the First World War when she had also been left to cope single-handedly. If Emma’s face grew graver by the day, then so did every other face in England, for the country was held in the grip of fulminating desperation as Hitler’s blitzkrieg continued unabated.

Towards the end of May, just after his fifty-fourth birthday, David Kallinski came to London to discuss their mutual business interests with Emma. He was still a good-looking man and those penetrating blue eyes had not dimmed, although his hair was iron grey and he had thickened around the waist. His devotion to Emma had remained constant over the years and he was always concerned about her. To his relief, when she greeted him at the house in Belgrave Square, he immediately saw that her face had lost its gaunt look and her beauty was returning, and she had also put on a little weight. Later they were joined by Blackie, and after a light supper they adjourned to the library for coffee and liqueurs, their conversation revolving around the war.

‘Do you think we’ll be able to get the boys off the beaches in time?’ Emma asked, thinking not only of Kit, and Ronnie and Mark Kallinski, but of the thousands of other British troops stranded in Dunkirk.

‘If anybody can do it, by God, Winston Churchill can!’ Blackie asserted. He shifted in his chair and went on, ‘He’s assembled an armada the likes of which the world has never seen, albeit a motley one. But it’s united in one goal—getting our boys safely home to Deal and Ramsgate before they are annihilated by the Germans advancing across the Low Countries into France.’

‘I read they came from all over England to assist the Royal Navy’s destroyers,’ David interjected, puffing on his cigar. ‘Volunteers from all walks of life, with their rowing boats, sailing boats, fishing trawlers, yachts, pleasure steamers, and even barges. It’s the most wonderful display of patriotism and heroism I’ve heard of in my lifetime.’

Blackie nodded. ‘Aye, it is, David. Seven hundred vessels of all shapes and sizes, including the destroyers, of course. It seems the volunteers are picking up the men and carrying
them out to the bigger ships that can’t get close enough to the beaches, while some are even ferrying the boys across the Channel on a round-the-clock basis. Enormously brave men, sure and they are, and indefatigable.’

‘How long do you think the evacuation will take?’ Emma inquired quietly, looking from Blackie to David with consternation.

David said, ‘A few days longer at least. There are hundreds of thousands of British and French troops to lift off, you know.’

‘I read today that the Luftwaffe is keeping up a steady bombardment of the beaches,’ Emma said. ‘I dread to think of the casualties.’

There are bound to be some, Emma,’ Blackie said. ‘But the RAF boys are up there in their fighter planes doing their damnedest to—’

‘Bryan, Robin, and Tony amongst them, Blackie,’ Emma interjected, and she looked away.

‘We all feel frustrated and helpless, sitting here in London. But all we can do is pray that our sons will be safe. And we must be cheerful,’ Blackie said. ‘Now come along, let’s have another drink. It will do us good.’ As she fixed their drinks Blackie’s eyes strayed to the clock on the mantelshelf. ‘Do you mind if we turn the radio on, Emma? Winston Churchill’s about to speak.’

‘No, of course not. I’d like to hear him myself.’ She rose and fiddled with the knob, tuning in to the BBC, and a moment later the familiar rhetorical voice rang out: ‘Good evening. This is the Prime Minister.’ The three old friends, who had shared so much in the past thirty years, sat back to listen, even more strongly joined together by fear for their sons and all the sons of England. When the Prime Minister had finished, Emma’s eyes stung and her voice quavered when she said, ‘What an inspiration that man is to us all. God help us if we didn’t have Churchill.’

The epic of Dunkirk gripped the imagination of England and her allies. Out of hell came back all the little steamers and rowing boats and pleasure steamers, bringing back the living and the wounded. The evacuation had taken eleven days, and 340,000 Allied troops had been rescued by the time the
Germans captured the French sea town. Only 40,000, mostly French, were left behind. Emma and David were lucky. Amongst those to land at Ramsgate on June 1 and 2 were Ronnie and Mark, and on June 3 Kit stepped off the barge that had transported him to Deal across a choppy Channel jammed with vessels and wreckage. Kit told Emma later, when he came home on leave, ‘I just made it by the skin of my teeth, Mother. I must have a guardian angel watching over me.’ He embraced her tightly, and, clinging to him, she choked up, thinking of his father, who had died in France in 1916, apparently in vain.

On June 4 Winston Churchill rose in the House of Commons and made a speech on Dunkirk. At one moment he said, ‘We shall fight on the beaches, we shall fight on the landing-grounds, we shall fight in the fields and in the streets, we shall fight in the hills; we shall never surrender.’ Six days later the French Government and the Army High Command fled Paris as the Nazi army drew closer. Four days after that the French capital was captured by the Germans, who took it without firing one shot. France had fallen.

Britain stood alone.

That summer was the worst Emma could remember. In July the Battle of Britain began in earnest. Hitler had ordered an all-out offensive against the RAF, specifically Britain’s aircraft factories and the fighter bases that ringed London. Day after day, night after night, huge fleets of Dornier and Heinkel bombers swept across the Channel to pulverize Britain, while Messerschmitt fighter planes fought off the RAF Hurricanes and Spitfires that rose up into the sky in swift retaliation.

Awakened at night by the screaming air-raid sirens, Emma would get up and stand by the window in her darkened bedroom, looking out at the night sky starkly illuminated by the searchlights and echoing with the incessant drone of the bombers and fighter planes, her heart in her mouth as she thought of Robin, Tony, and Bryan and the other young pilots up there risking their lives. Some nights she was joined by Elizabeth, who had given up the small flat she had taken during her Royal Academy days, and was again living at
home. ‘Are you awake, Mummy?’ she would invariably whisper, gliding into the room in her nightgown. ‘Yes, darling,’ Emma would answer, and the two of them would stand together, their arms around each other, watching the planes zooming past.

One night Elizabeth grasped her mother’s arm fiercely, and her voice was unusually harsh when she cried out, ‘Why, Mummy? Why? Why did this ghastly war have to start? What’s the purpose of it? They’re all going to be killed! Tony and Robin and Bryan, and all of our other boys!’

Emma had no answers for her daughter, or for herself. Elizabeth became distraught, sobbing uncontrollably. Emma put her arms around Elizabeth’s shoulders and led her to the bed. ‘They’re not going to be killed, darling,’ she comforted. ‘They’re going to be all right. I promise you. We must be brave. Get into my bed and sleep with me tonight. We’ll keep each other company.’

‘Yes, Mummy, I think I will,’ Elizabeth said, crawling under the covers. Emma held her close, as she had done when she was small and frightened of the dark. ‘Don’t cry and try not to worry, Elizabeth.’

‘If Tony gets killed I won’t be able to bear it,’ Elizabeth said through her tears. ‘I love him so much. And if Robin—’

‘Hush, darling. Try to sleep now. You must have your rest.’

‘Yes, I’ll try. Thank you, Mummy. Good night.’

‘Good night, dear.’

Emma lay in the darkness, waiting for Elizabeth’s tense body to relax and go limp in sleep. But it did not, and Emma knew that her daughter would spend yet another sleepless night worrying about her husband and her twin, as she would herself.

Emma had made a habit of walking to the store in Knights-bridge every day, and as the summer drifted on she did so to the accompanying sounds of anti-aircraft guns, whining sirens, falling rubble, and shattering glass. She would flinch when she saw a favourite landmark demolished, an ancient church in ruins, old haunts she and Paul had frequented flattened to the ground. Yet in spite of London’s devastation, its bleak mood, and the weary expressions on the faces she
passed in the streets, Emma would nevertheless marvel at the stoicism and indomitability of her fellow countrymen and countrywomen. Often a cheery Cockney voice would break into a song, perhaps a fireman hosing a pile of smoking bricks or a workman clearing away the debris, and a cab driver would have a breezy comment to make, and they lifted her heart with courage. It was at times like these that she would remember Churchill’s words: ‘We shall never surrender’, and her strength was renewed, a spring returned to her step, her back straightened, and her head flew up proudly. And somehow her burdens seemed all that much lighter to bear.

The summer drew to a close. In September a large portion of the East End docks was destroyed in a massive air attack. The daily raids continued and the RAF pilots were tested to their limits, flying nonstop missions. The usual two- and three-day leaves were cancelled and Emma did not see Robin for weeks. The Royal Air Force was Britain’s last defence, and even though they were outnumbered three to one, the boys in blue in their Spitfires and Hurricanes out-performed the Luftwaffe. By October the Führer’s plan to destroy the RAF and break English morale in readiness for a full-scale invasion had proved a failure. In fact, Hitler had suffered his first major defeat. But the German bombers still continued night raids on the large cities, levelling many to the ground, and the grim years dragged on endlessly. Years of the Blitz; coupons, ration cards, and queues; shortages and deprivations; sorrow and grief as old friends and the sons and daughters of old friends were killed or named missing in action.

But in the midst of the devastation there was the miraculous renewal of life. In 1942, June, Kit’s wife, gave birth to a daughter. Emma was fond of June and delighted at the arrival of a second grandchild, and she went up to Leeds for the baptism of the baby, who was called Sarah. The same year, at the end of the summer term, Daisy left boarding school and came home to live with her mother and Elizabeth in Belgrave Square. Now the house did not seem so lonely and there were even moments of gaiety and laughter, especially when Robin came up from Biggin Hill, where he was stationed. He invariably brought one or two of his RAF friends from the 111th
Squadron with him, explaining to Emma, ‘The chaps are going to bunk in with us, Ma. You don’t mind, do you? All the hotels are jam-packed.’ Emma did not mind. In fact, she willingly opened her doors and her heart to those dauntless young pilots.

At Christmas, Robin was fortunate to get a three-day pass at the last minute and he arrived unannounced on Christmas Eve, as usual dragging three friends in his wake. The moment David Amory walked into her living room Emma’s heart missed a beat. He was tall and dark, with bright blue eyes and a flashing smile, and there was something about his looks and his engaging manner that reminded her of Paul McGill. David was not as outrageously handsome as Paul had been as a young man, nor did he have his massive size or his audacious personality, yet he struck a chord in her memory of Paul as he had been during the First World War. David was twenty-four, a new arrival at Biggin Hill and already something of a war hero. With an ingeniousness that was quite endearing, he charmed Emma at once.