Emma sat for a few moments on the sofa under the leaded window in the upstairs parlour, thinking about Churchill’s words and of the past six years. Last night everyone had celebrated, but her uppermost emotion had been relief. Relief that her sons had not been killed, that her son-in-law and her nephew, and the sons of Blackie and David Kallinski had managed to cheat death also. Thankfully, they had their futures ahead of them, and that was something to celebrate, wasn’t it?
Walking over to her desk, she clipped the speech from the newspaper, put it in an envelope and stowed it safely away in the fruitwood casket scrolled in silver. It was worth keeping, something to savour again later.
It had been sunny all day, remarkably balmy for May, and to Emma’s surprise it stayed warm well into the early evening.
She sat on the long terrace at Pennistone Royal, waiting for Blackie O’Neill to arrive. He had been in London on business on V-E Day, and so he had not been able to celebrate with them in Leeds. But now that he was back in Yorkshire they would have their own celebratory dinner tonight, just the two of them.
Her thoughts drifted…events of the last seven years sped through her head like a reel of film unwinding before her eyes. Paul’s death, her overwhelming grief, the perils of war…the Blitz, the dreaded VIS, those deadly, pilotless bombs that had devastated and decimated London. Their young at risk in the air and on land and sea. But the triumphs, too. Dunkirk and other victories…so many good things mixed in with the heartache: her children’s marriages, the birth of three grandchildren.
How time passes, and so swiftly as we get older, she thought. She had been fifty-six at the end of April…it didn’t seem possible to her. In a few years she would be sixty. Yet she felt so young. Young at heart and in spirit, and her strength and energy and vitality were the same as they had been when she was ten years younger.
I have been lucky, she thought suddenly, and more so than some, her mind turning to the mothers and fathers who had lost sons in the conflict, like those of young Matthew Hall, Robin’s friend from the IIIth Squadron at Biggin Hill, shot down over France. Killed in action. A smile touched her mouth when she thought of him, but her eyes were moist. So young, too young to die.
A fragment of Rupert Brooke’s famous poem ran through her head…If I should die, think only this of me: / That there’s some corner of a foreign field / That is for ever England. There shall be / In that rich earth a richer dust concealed; / A dust whom England bore, shaped, made aware, / Gave, once, her flowers to love, her ways to roam, / A body of England’s, breathing English air, / Washed by the rivers, blest by suns of home…
She heard his step, and then his familiar voice, calling, ‘Are you out there, mavourneen?’ and she quickly brushed the tears from her cheeks before she stood up and swung around, went to meet her oldest friend.
Blackie put his arm around her and they walked back down the terrace, and sat together on the wrought-iron garden seat. He said, ‘I’m sorry I missed all the excitement in Leeds. Winston told me it was quite something to behold.’
‘It was, the town went mad.’
‘Aye, the whole of Britain went mad with joy.’ He looked into her eyes. ‘We’ve been lucky, you and I. And Winston and David Kallinski. Our sons are safe. Some not so lucky, eh?’ He touched her damp cheek with a fingertip. ‘You’ve been crying, lass.’
‘I was thinking of that nice young man, Matthew Hall, just before you arrived. Robin’s friend, and Bryan’s, from the IIIth Squadron.’
‘It’s a tragic thing, the loss of our young. Bryan’s been devastated that Matt didn’t make it.’
‘I spoke to David today, Blackie. He was so sad about his cousin Ruth. She married a Frenchman, if you remember, and went to live in France. She just vanished during the war, and he has worried about her so much. Poor Ruth. He never knew her fate, but now he surely does.’
‘There are a lot of broken hearts around these days, me darlin’, but we must not dwell on sadness this evening. You and I have such a lot to be thankful for…’ His eyes grew warm, very loving, as he asked, ‘And how’s the bairn?’
Emma’s face lit up. ‘She’s just wonderful. Daisy was concerned that her eyes would change colour, but they haven’t. They’re still that lovely deep blue, so deep in colour they’re almost violet, like pansies.’
‘Aye, I noticed that when we saw her two weeks ago. And she has Paul’s black hair. She’s a McGill, all right.’
‘I have a good feeling about Paula. She’s going to be my girl.’
‘Nay, lass, you can’t be taking her away from her mother,’ he admonished, looking at her askance.
‘I didn’t mean that she’ll be mine physically, to bring up. I’m leaving that to Daisy and David for a few years. I meant she would be mine spiritually. Neither Elizabeth nor Daisy wanted to come into my business, but I’m hoping Paula will.’
Blackie began to laugh, shaking his head. ‘There you go again, thinking about business, as you have done all of your life. But then a leopard doesn’t change its spots, I suppose. Still, she is only five months old, Emma. Give her a chance, let her have a childhood!’ He continued to laugh, highly amused.
Emma joined in his laughter, and then, sobering, she said softly, ‘Paula is my future, Blackie, she surely is. Mind you, I suppose we will make an odd couple: the little girl and the old lady…’
‘You’re not old, Emma Harte! Why, you’ll never be old, me darlin’. You’ll always be my young colleen of the moors, that little sprite of a girl with her big green eyes and bright red hair shot through with gold…Why, I can see you now, Emma, in my mind’s eye…such a powerful being you were, even then.’
Emma sat back in her chair. ‘Thank you, Blackie, for always being here for me, for being my very best friend, my dearest friend.’
‘And I thank you Emma, for the same…it’s been a privilege to know you, mavourneen.’
They sat together in silence. After a moment Emma looked up at the sky. It was a deep pavonine blue, turning deeper as twilight now descended, tinged with gold on the rim of the moors. A gentle sky tonight. Reaching out she took hold of Blackie’s hand and held it in hers. He looked across at her. She gazed back at him intently for a long moment, and then she smiled her incomparable smile, which illuminated her face with radiance.
‘Hearts at peace, under an English heaven,’ she said.
PART THREE
Legacy
2001
The legacy of heroes is the memory of a great name and the inheritance of a great example.
Benjamin Disraeli, British statesman and twice Prime Minister
I charge you to hold my dream.
Emma Harte
CHAPTER FORTY
‘I didn’t find any secrets,’ Paula said, leaning against the door jamb, watching Shane change his shirt, tie and suit in his dressing room which adjoined their bedroom in the Belgrave Square maisonette.
‘Nothing?’he asked, glancing across at her, a surprised look on his face as he buttoned his fresh shirt.
‘Well, let me amend my statement. There is definitely a secret to do with Glynnis Hughes, and it’s a name. But that name is not in any of the diaries. Grandy never wrote it down.’
‘Who is it the name of?’
‘The real father of Owen Hughes.’
‘Oh, so Richard Hughes wasn’t his biological father after all?’
‘No.’ Paula adjusted her stance against the doorframe, and went on, ‘Whilst you’ve been out of town, I’ve done nothing but read Emma’s diaries in the evening–well, I skip-read some of them. And very interesting reading they make. Emily agrees. She had to help me out at one point. As I mentioned on the phone to you, Glynnis was Emma’s secretary during the war years. She mentions her a lot in the diaries, but she was awfully closed-mouthed about her private life: protective, I’d say.’
‘But do you think Emma knew the name of the man involved?’ Shane asked, his curiosity getting the better of him.
‘Oh yes, I’m certain
she did. Emma wrote something in her diary, the day Glynnis broke down in tears and told her about her predicament. It was at Pennistone Royal, she used to take Glynnis up there with her from time to time. Actually, Shane, she promised Glynnis she’d never reveal the name of the baby’s father as long as she lived, and she didn’t. You knew my grandmother, and what she was like. Integrity was her middle name.’
‘Yes, Grandfather always said she was the most honest person he had ever known, man or woman. But getting back to Glynnis, she and Grandy must have been quite friendly.’
‘I believe there was a deep affection there. I think Glynnis hero-worshipped Emma, and my grandmother was certainly exceedingly fond of Glynnis–favoured her.’
‘So the mystery man made Glynnis pregnant, probably refused to marry her, so she married Richard Hughes…Do you think that’s the true story, Paula?’
‘More or less.’
Shane threw her a questioning glance and frowned. ‘You sound doubtful.’
‘From what I gather, Glynnis knew Richard for some time. They’d met at Grandy’s wartime canteen for the troops—’
‘Emma had a canteen for the troops,’ he cut in. ‘Well, I’ll be damned!’ A surprised but pleased expression crossed Shane’s face. ‘Well, why am I sounding surprised? That’s just like Emma. I wonder why Grandpops never mentioned the canteen to me?’
‘It was so long ago, darling, water under the bridge to them. Grandy never mentioned it to me, either. Anyway, Richard was crazy about her, and had proposed, according to Grandy’s diary for 1943. She told Glynnis to tell him the truth, explain that she was pregnant, and suggest marriage. If he walked away, Grandy said she had her for a backup position. That she’d help Glynnis financially.’
‘That was generous…’ Shane threw Paula a pointed look.
‘Just Grandy remembering Edwin Fairley, and her own predicament, that’s all, I’m sure. Nothing else behind her helping Glynnis. Anyway, the reason I looked a bit doubtful is this…I’m not certain the man involved could marry Glynnis.’
‘Oh, I get it. A married man?’
‘Possibly.’
‘You’ve got a funny look on your face, Beanstalk,’ Shane said, reverting to his childhood nickname for her. ‘Come on, spill it.’
‘It’s only a thought…but maybe Uncle Winston was the father. Emma’s brother was awfully high on Glynnis, singing her praises constantly. Grandy even remarks on it in her diary.’
‘You can’t be serious!’ Shane exclaimed, reaching for a blue silk tie, threading it under his collar, beginning to make the knot, staring in the mirror as he did.
‘It’s just a thought that crossed my mind, because Grandy mentions her brother Winston making extremely flattering remarks about Glynnis. Apparently he really liked her.’
Shane swung around to face Paula. ‘But why would Emma give the game away? If her brother was the culprit, why make comments about him liking the girl? Isn’t that like…spelling it out?’
‘I suppose you’re right.’
‘So Glynnis married her GI and went off to America. End of story.’
‘Not quite. As you well know. On her deathbed, Glynnis instructed her granddaughter Evan to go and find Emma Harte because Emma was the key to her future.’
Shane took his jacket off the hanger and slipped it on, then opened a drawer looking for a silk handkerchief for his breast pocket, saying as he did so, ‘The dying meanderings of an old lady, most probably.’ Then he suggested, ‘Look, we’ve established Evan Hughes is not a McGill. Your grandfather had been dead for several years when Owen was conceived. Let’s just assume she’s not a Harte either. Therefore, case closed.’
‘I agree, and so does Emily. She went through some of the diaries, as I told you. She came across nothing, no reference to the mystery man. She thinks I’m wrong to even consider Winston the first. She says it’s well known in the family that he adored Charlotte, and would never have so much as glanced at another woman. So, case closed it is. And naturally I’m not going to mention a word about Glynnis to Evan. There’s no reason for her to know about her father’s illegitimacy…why hurt her?’
‘You’re right, darling. All you have to do is kill the gossip about Evan being a long-lost McGill.’
‘Philip and I will do that, don’t you worry. Now, are you ready? We don’t want to be late for the retrospective.’
‘That’s right. How do I look?’
Paula smiled at him. ‘Not bad for a man who’s spent half a day on a fast plane and in a fast car, trying to get here at breakneck speed.’
‘But I did make it in one piece.’
‘And some piece it is,’ she laughed.
Reaching out, Shane pulled her to him and held her close in his arms for a moment. Then he held her away, looking into her violet eyes that were truly the colour of pansies. ‘You’re beautiful, and I love you. And I think we’re going to be very proud of our daughter tonight, and what she’s accomplished.’
‘I agree with you…’ Paula slipped out of his arms and went to pick up her black silk evening purse, then turned to look at him. ‘I’m very worried about Tessa, Shane. I think she’s being abused.’
He gaped at her. ‘Why do you say that?’
‘Because she has all the symptoms of a battered wife. I’ve always thought Mark caused that problem with her shoulder. And I think that psychologically she’s unbalanced.’
‘If it’s true then she’ll have to leave him! I won’t allow a man to beat her, you can be damned sure of that.’ His face had turned grim, and there was a hard glint in his black eyes. ‘We’re going to have to get to the bottom of this, Paula!’ he exclaimed, and she saw how angry he was.
‘It won’t be easy. Battered wives don’t always want to talk. Or leave a dangerous situation. I thought we could take her to dinner with us tonight, Shane, after the retrospective. In fact, I invited her already.’
‘Isn’t Mark going to be there?’
‘Apparently not.’
Shane nodded. ‘Perhaps we’ll find something out. We can certainly try. Anyway, who else is coming to dinner?’
‘Winston and Emily. Uncle Ronnie and Michael Kallinski. India and a boyfriend of hers–nobody serious, I understand. Linnet and Julian. Evan and Gideon. Lorne and Mummy. Your father. Aunt Elizabeth and Marc Deboyne. And Amanda.’
‘So we won’t be able to have a serious talk with Tessa, but we can try to glean something from her. Certainly we can ascertain her state of mind, her mood. How has she been at work?’
‘That’s just it, Shane, she’s not been particularly well, in my opinion. Impatient, irritable and not cooperative. Linnet said she’s been very moody, combative, worse than ever.’
‘This is a priority…we must get to the bottom of it and as soon as possible. But now we’d better go, we won’t want to be late,’ he said.
India Standish glided down an aisle between two fashion displays, looking stylish in a multicoloured chiffon dress with a narrow torso, bell-like sleeves and a flattering, feminine skirt that fell to her ankles. Some of the pink, yellow and pale blue flowers in the chiffon’s pattern were lightly embroidered with tiny bugle beads. It was a stunning summer evening dress that emphasized her slender figure and height.
‘You look fabulous, India,’ Evan said admiringly, walking over to join her. ‘And I love your Manolo Blahniks. I almost bought the same pair.’
India grinned. ‘I know, Linnet told me, and you could’ve you know, I wouldn’t have minded at all. And Evan, you look really beautiful. What a lovely colour this delphinium blue is on you.’
‘Thank you. It was Linnet who made me buy the dress, but, to be honest, I’d fallen in love with it anyway. I’ve never had anything quite as stylish before.’ Or as expensive, Evan thought, but she did not say this. Her dress was slightly off-the-shoulder, with tiny cap sleeves and horizontal pleats of chiffon from the neck to the mid-calf hem. It was by Chanel, and only someone of Evan’s height and willowy figure could have carried it so w
ell. She wore silver strip sandals with high heels, and a pair of diamond stud earrings from Gideon.
The two colleagues and good friends walked around the auditorium, looking at the different displays of haute-couture clothes on mannequins, which stood on slightly raised platforms for perfect viewing by the public. There were different sections. Some were devoted to famous designers and their clothes from the 1920s to 2000, with huge blow-ups of the designers on the walls behind the platforms.
There was a section which featured Fashion Icons, the chic and stylish women who had agreed to lend some of their couture pieces, and be part of the retrospective. Their large photographs were displayed on easels in front of their clothes.
And finally there was the biggest and most beautiful display of all, which was entirely devoted to the clothes of Emma Harte, the collection dating from the 1920s to the late 1960s, all designed by world-famous couturiers.
Silk banners bearing the words EIGHTY YEARS OF FASHION: A RETROSPECTIVE hung down from the ceiling in different areas. The entire space was well-planned; designed to allow the maximum number of people to walk around comfortably, looking at the clothes without impeding the view of others.
‘Those space-planners from Yorkshire did a really great job!’ Evan exclaimed at one moment. ‘Gee, India, I sort of hate to say this myself, but I think the whole auditorium looks smashing. Congratulations to you, to us!’
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