Winston noticed his brother’s weary stance. ‘Are you sure you’re not ill, Frank? Emma’s quite right, you don’t seem to be your usual self.’
Frank swung around and managed a smile. ‘I suppose the situation is getting on top of me,’ he muttered, and returned to the chair. ‘The Nazis are about to move into Poland. We’re all convinced of that.’
Winston and Emma plied him with questions, and Frank responded automatically, attempting to sound coherent. Emma had been listening thoughtfully and she turned to face Winston, who was fixing himself a scotch and soda, and she said, ‘I expect we ought to start thinking about our various staffs. They will be badly depleted when the men get called up.’ She caught her breath and her hand flew to her throat nervously to finger her pearls. ‘And my God! What about the boys! Kit and Robin are bound to go. And Randolph, Winston. He’s also of age.’
‘Yes, he is. In fact, he wants to join the navy. Immediately.’ Winston’s mouth tightened. ‘He’s determined to do it. I won’t be able to stop him.’
Emma gave her older brother an anxious glance. His only son was the apple of his eye. ‘Randolph’s headstrong, I realize that, and so are my boys. They’re not going to listen to us. I don’t suppose there is anything we can do. They will ultimately get their papers.’ She now addressed Frank. ‘Well, at least your Simon is not old enough to be called up.’
‘For the moment,’ Frank said, and rose. He poured a large brandy and brought it to Emma. ‘You had better drink this. I think you are going to need it.’
Emma regarded him with puzzlement. ‘Why do you say that?’ She frowned. ‘And you know I don’t like brandy. It gives me heart palpitations.’
‘Please drink it,’ Frank said quietly.
Emma brought the brandy balloon up to her mouth and took a drop of it, wrinkling her nose with distaste. She put the glass down on the butler’s tray table in front of her, and focused her attention on Frank. Once more she noted his extraordinary pallor. And when she saw the apprehension, now so clearly etched on his sensitive face, it alarmed her. A dreadful feeling of impending disaster struck Emma and she clasped her hands tightly together in her lap. ‘Something’s terribly wrong, isn’t it, Frank?’
Frank felt a dryness in his mouth and his voice was hoarse as he finally said, ‘I’ve had some very bad news. Just now, before I left the office.’ Despite the iron control he was exercising, his voice shook badly.
‘Frank dear, whatever is it?’ asked Emma, every one of her instincts alerted for trouble.
Winston said rapidly, ‘There’s nothing wrong at the paper, is there?’
‘No,’ Frank responded in a low voice. ‘It’s…it’s about Paul, actually.’
‘Paul! You’ve had bad news about Paul! What’s wrong with him?’ Emma demanded.
‘I don’t know how to tell you this, Emma—’ Frank stopped. After an awful moment of silence he finished in a faltering voice, ‘He’s—he’s—he’s passed away.’
Emma stared at her brother with stunned disbelief, and she shook her head in bewilderment. ‘What do you mean?’ she asked, unable to digest his words. ‘I don’t understand what you are saying. I just had a letter from him. Yesterday. What are you saying to me?’ She had turned so deathly pale she looked as if she was going to faint and she was shaking.
Frank went to kneel at her feet. He looked up at her gravely and took her hand in his. He said with great gentleness, ‘Paul’s dead, Emma. The story came over the wires when I was on my way here.’
‘Paul,’ Emma whispered incredulously, and her expression was one of blank stupefaction mingled with fear. She cried in a tremulous voice, ‘Are you sure there is no mistake? There must be a mistake!’
Frank shook his head dismally. ‘All the wire services are carrying the same story. I checked them out.’
‘Oh my God,’ Emma groaned, her blood turning cold.
Winston, as grey as a ghost, managed, ‘How did Paul die, Frank?’
Frank gazed at Emma, bleakness washing over his face as he sought the appropriate words. But nothing would soften the blow. Frank found himself incapable of speech.
Now Emma tightened her grip, her fingers biting into his hand. ‘Did Paul—? Was it his injuries? Were they more serious than he told me?’ She sounded weak.
‘Well, yes, I believe they were much worse than he led you to understand—’
The trilling of the doorbell startled them all, and Emma’s eyes widened with apprehension and appealed to Winston. He nodded and pulled himself up out of the chair. As he left the drawing room he prayed it wasn’t the press wanting a statement. To Winston’s relief the housekeeper was admitting Henry Rossiter, a partner in the private merchant bank which handled all of Paul’s business in England, and much of Emma’s as well. Henry’s face was as dolorous as Winston’s. He shook Winston’s hand and asked, ‘Does she know?’ Winston inclined his head. ‘How is she taking it?’ Henry murmured.
Winston said, ‘She’s stunned. It hasn’t really sunk in yet. There will be a horrible delayed reaction, of course, Henry. I dread to contemplate it.’
Henry nodded his understanding. ‘Yes. They were so close. What a tragic, tragic thing to happen. How did Emma hear about it?’
Winston quickly explained and motioned to the drawing room. ‘We’d better go in, Henry. She needs us.’
Henry entered the living room and sat down next to Emma. ‘I’m sorry. So very sorry, my dear. I got here as quickly as I could. As soon as I knew.’
Emma’s throat worked and she passed her hand over her throbbing head. She said, ‘Did someone in Sydney contact you, Henry?’
‘Yes, Mel Harrison. He has been trying to get me all day. I was in the country, unfortunately.’
‘Why didn’t he attempt to reach me?’ she asked in a voice echoing with sorrow.
‘He wanted me to break the news to you in person, Emma. He didn’t want you to be alone when you heard—’
‘When did Paul die?’ she interrupted, her heart squeezing.
‘His body was found on Sunday night. It’s early Monday morning there now. Mel put in a call to me as soon as he arrived at the house. He realized he couldn’t hold off the press indefinitely, since the police have to—’
‘Police!’ Emma exclaimed. ‘What do you mean? Why were the police there?’
Henry looked at Frank with dismay. They exchanged worried glances and both men were silent. Frank now contemplated lying to Emma, but there was no point in dissembling. Better to get it over with. He said gently, ‘Paul took his own life, Emma.’
‘Oh my God! No! No! It’s not true! I don’t believe you! Paul wouldn’t do that. Never,’ Emma cried.
‘I’m afraid it’s true, darling,’ Frank said, and put his arm around her.
Emma moved her head wildly from side to side, denying Frank. She seemed to shrink in the chair. ‘How did he—’ She could not continue.
Frank bit his lip. ‘He—he shot himself.’ He did not add that Paul shot himself through the heart. He could not bring himself to tell her that.
‘No!’ she shrieked, losing control. ‘It’s not true!’ she gasped. A tearing sob strangled in her throat and she twisted her hands agitatedly. Her eyes, brimming with shock, focused on Henry.
He nodded sadly. ‘It is true, Emma.’
‘It’s not! It’s not!’ she cried, her voice rising. ‘Oh my God! Paul! Paul! Oh, my darling. Why?’ Her voice broke and tears welled in her eyes. She pushed Frank aside and stood up, moving to the centre of the room. She stretched out her arms, clutching blindly at the empty air, as if seeking Paul, to hold him to her.
Frank sprang up and took her arm, leading her back to the sofa. ‘Sit down, Emma. Please, darling.’
Winston rose unsteadily and walked across the room, anxiety dulling his eyes, and he wondered desperately where she was going to find the strength to bear this tragedy. He picked up the glass of brandy. ‘Drink this, our Emma. Drink it, love. We’re here. We’ll stay with you.’
&nb
sp; She took the glass from him with both hands, which were trembling, and she gulped it down quickly. ‘I must know everything. Please, Frank, you must tell me everything. I must know it all. For my own sanity.’
Frank was alarmed. ‘I have the UP story with me, Emma, but I don’t think I should—’
‘Yes, you should. You must. I beg of you.’
‘I think you had better give Emma the facts, Frank,’ Winston interceded, adopting a calmness he did not feel. ‘She won’t rest until she knows all the details. However painful they are to hear, you must tell her.’
Frank nodded and pulled the piece of paper out. In a slow, saddened voice he read:
‘Paul McGill, Australia’s most renowned industrialist, was found shot to death on Sunday night at his home in Sydney. Mr McGill, who was fifty-nine years old, was in a serious automobile accident four months ago, which paralysed him from the waist downward. One side of his face was also badly shattered. Mr McGill had been confined to a wheelchair since his release from the hospital and his doctors believe he took his own life in a moment of acute depression, undoubtedly caused by his condition. No note was found. Mr McGill, who had resided mostly in London for the past sixteen years, was the only son of Bruce McGill and the grandson of Andrew McGill, founding father of the famous Australian family, one of the wealthiest and most influential in the country. It was Andrew McGill, a Scottish sea captain, who began the family sheep station, Dunoon, in Coonamble, in 1852. One of the biggest and most prosperous in New South Wales, the sheep station was inherited by Paul McGill upon his father’s death in 1919. Mr McGill, believed to be one of the richest men in the world, was chairman of the board of numerous Australian companies, including the McGill Corporation, which operated the sheep station, McGill and Smythson Real Estate, the McGill Mining Corporation, and the McGill Coal Company. He was also chairman of the board of the Sitex Oil Corporation of America, headquartered in Texas, and president and chief executive officer of McGill-Marriott Maritime, which owns and operates one of the world’s largest oil-tanker fleets.’
Frank stopped. ‘There’s a lot more about the business, the family, Paul’s war record, and his education. Do you want to go on, Emma?’
‘No,’ she whispered. She turned to Henry miserably. ‘Why didn’t he tell me about the paralysis? His face? I would have gone to him immediately. He should have told me, Henry.’ Tears seeped out of the corners of her eyes and trickled silently down her cheeks. ‘Did he think his condition would have made any difference to me? And I should have been with him.’ She began to sob brokenly. ‘I loved him.’
Henry’s voice was sympathetic. ‘Mel wanted him to send for you. But you know how stubborn and proud Paul was. He was adamant, it seems. According to Mel, he didn’t want you to see him that way, or know the seriousness of his injuries, or to be burdened with him.’
Emma was speechless. Not to be burdened with him, she thought. But I loved him more than life itself. Oh, Paul, why did you keep me away from you when you needed me the most? She envisaged Paul’s pain and the terrible despair which had prompted his action, and an overwhelming sorrow engulfed her.
It seemed to Emma that the whole world had abruptly stopped. There was no sound in the room, except for the faint ticking of the carriage clock on the mantelshelf. She looked down at the great McGill emerald glittering on her finger, and at the wedding ring Paul had given her when Daisy was born, and her unchecked tears fell on her hands and splashed against the rings. And she remembered the words he had spoken that day: ‘Until death do us part,’ he had said. Her heart twisted inside her. She lifted her head and glanced about, and a terrible aching numbness entered her body. She felt as though she, too, was paralysed and would be quite unable to move ever again. The pain was beginning, and she understood with a flash of clarity that she would never be free of it. She thought: I cannot live without him. He was my life. There is nothing left now. Only the empty years ahead to endure until I, too, die.
Winston and Frank were helpless in their despair. Winston could not stand to see her suffering, and telephoned the family doctor, who arrived fifteen minutes later. Emma was given a sedative and the housekeeper helped her to bed. But racking sobs continued to convulse her and they did not cease for over two hours, when the sedative finally lulled her into a more tranquil state.
Her two brothers, Henry Rossiter, and the doctor stayed with Emma until she finally fell into a drugged sleep. As they left the bedroom, Winston said, ‘Her sorrow is only just beginning.’
Tragedy had struck at Emma many times in her life. It had caused her to falter, but it had never brought her to her knees. Paul’s death felled her with one swift blow.
All of her children, except Edwina, came home to be with her. They had loved and admired Paul, and they were aghast and grief-stricken, most especially Daisy, who had been the closest to him. Each one in their own way tried to comfort their mother, but their efforts were in vain.
Frank’s wife, Natalie, came immediately; Charlotte, Winston’s wife, and their son, Randolph, travelled up to London from Leeds with Blackie and his son Bryan, the four of them accompanied by David Kallinski and his sons, Ronnie and Mark. None of them could reach Emma and, after a brief visit with her in her bedroom, they assembled in the library, their faces clouded with anxiety.
Blackie attempted to alleviate their worry. He said, ‘Even the strongest heart can be broken, you know. But a strong heart always mends. I put my money on Emma any day. She’s a born survivor and she’ll survive this. Also, I think it’s much better she gets her grief out. I know she’ll be all right.’ And he meant every word, for he knew the stern stuff she was made of.
But for days Emma lay prostrate, half crazed and incoherent with grief. She became so debilitated at one point Winston seriously contemplated hospitalizing her. The dawn hours were the worst for Emma. She would lie motionless in her bed, bereft and without hope, watching the cold grey light creeping in, waiting for the beginning of a new endless empty day, staring vacantly into space like a blind woman. But her vivid and active mind was for ever in a turmoil, filled with conflicting and troublesome thoughts. She wondered if she had failed Paul in some way. Failed to properly convey over the years the depth and sincerity of her love for him. She castigated herself for not having gone to Australia when he had first had the accident, believing she could have prevented him from lifting that fateful gun. If she had not listened to him she could have saved his life, of that she was absolutely convinced. The weight of her guilt was heavy to bear, and her despondency and wretchedness only increased.
Henry Rossiter had told her of the doctors’ dismal prognosis, and slowly, as the shock receded, she began to dimly understand that a man like Paul, so virile, so powerful, would regard suicide as the only viable solution to his awful predicament, and yet sometimes she felt utterly abandoned and betrayed by him. However, mostly she was able to dismiss these feelings as manifestations of self-pity, a curious anger, which was baffling, and her own sense of powerlessness. It was also incomprehensible to her that Paul had not written, for she was unable to accept the fact that he would kill himself without one last word to her, and every day she looked for a letter, which did not come.
Winston, who had taken charge of the household and the Knightsbridge store, decided to keep Daisy at home from boarding school after the rest of the family departed. It was she who eventually reached Emma and brought her a measure of relief. Emma’s youngest child was surprisingly mature for a fourteen-year-old, and understanding beyond her years. Her own sorrow was acute, but she carefully strove to conceal this most of the time, and she finally achieved a real breakthrough with her mother. She persuaded Emma to eat a little every day, and gradually helped to stem the flow of tears with her loving presence. Occasionally Emma would look intently at Daisy and she would see Paul so clearly reflected in the child’s face her tears would start afresh, and she would cling to their daughter, calling for Paul. Daisy would wipe away the tears and calm her with soothing words,
rocking her in her arms as if she were the mother and Emma the daughter.
One night, after Emma had collapsed again, Daisy tenderly cajoled her into a more peaceful state of mind, and for the first time Emma fell into a natural sleep that was heavy and deep. When she awakened several hours later she felt rested and had even acquired a degree of composure. She at once noticed Daisy curled up on the chaise dozing. And she suddenly saw her daughter objectively. With a flash of insight Emma recognized she had been burdening Daisy with her own grief when the child herself needed love and support. With a supreme effort she roused herself from her lethargy, and some of that strength, always formidable, began to trickle back into her weary body.
Emma got out of bed unaided and moved slowly to the chaise, her legs shaking and unsteady. Daisy woke up instantly and when she saw her mother bending over her she took hold of her hand swiftly, her eyes apprehensive. ‘Mummy, what is it? Do you feel ill again?’
‘No, darling. In fact, I think I’m a bit better.’ Emma took Daisy in her arms and held her close, stroking her glossy black hair. ‘I’ve been very wrong, Daisy, putting the burden of my grief on you. So wrong. Please forgive me, darling. Now, I want you to get ready for bed and have a really good night’s sleep. And I don’t want you to worry about me any more. I will be fine. And tomorrow I am going to send you back to boarding school.’
Daisy pulled away and stared at Emma in surprise, and her vivid blue eyes were brilliant with tears. ‘But I want to stay with you, Mummy. To look after you. Paul would want that. He really would. He wouldn’t want you to be alone, Mummy.’
Emma smiled gently. ‘You’ve been looking after me very well, and now it’s my turn to look after you. I am going to be all right, darling. Truly I am.’
Daisy began to cry and she buried her head on Emma’s breast, sobbing as if her heart would break. ‘Hush, darling. Hush,’ Emma murmured. ‘We must be strong and brave, and help each other in the coming months.’
‘I’ve been so afraid, Mummy.’ Daisy sobbed, her tears drenching Emma’s crumpled nightgown. ‘I thought you were going to die, too.’
A Woman of Substance Page 91