Emma's Secret

  ‘I’m glad to help,’ Emma murmured, and glanced at her watch. ‘I’d better go, Jane, I need to speak to the store, arrange for the food.’

  An hour later, Jack Field, the manager of the food halls at Harte’s and a favourite of Emma’s, stood in the middle of her kitchen in the maisonette, explaining what the collection of wicker hampers contained.

  ‘Every kind of pie, Mrs. Harte. Game, chicken, veal-and-ham, and a lot of the small individual pork pies we sell. Cornish pasties, sausage rolls, cold meats for sandwiches, cold chickens, tea biscuits, eggs, mayonnaise, like you requested, and bags of fresh sausages as well as sausage meat.’

  ‘That’s excellent, Jack. Now let’s unpack the sausages and the ingredients for the sandwiches first…oh, and the eggs. I want to make a big batch of egg salad.’

  As she moved across the kitchen, Emma beckoned to Glynnis and Grace, and told them, ‘Let’s get to work. You can get the eggs boiling, Grace, and Glynnis, why don’t you help me to fry the sausages? Jack, you can assist with the sandwiches, if you don’t mind.’

  ‘Mrs. Harte, it’s a pleasure to do anything I can, and I’ll be here tomorrow morning with the van and driver to go with you to the East End.’

  ‘Thanks, Jack, I appreciate that very much.’ Emma, who had earlier changed into a shirt, trousers and flat shoes, now donned an apron, and handed one to Glynnis. ‘Thank you for staying,’ she said to her secretary. ‘It’s very good of you, especially on a Saturday night.’

  ‘Oh, Mrs. Harte, I’m pleased to be of help. I’d nothing to do that was special. My cousin and I talked about going to the pictures, but we can do that another night.’

  Emma was always fast, whatever she was doing, but in a crisis she became a dynamo. And such was the case on this September Saturday night, as she and her team of helpers fried sausages, made Scotch eggs, and prepared hundreds of sandwiches, which they wrapped in dampened white linen napkins to keep them from drying out and going stale overnight.

  ‘These ’ere napkins’ll be ruined,’ Grace muttered at one moment, looking at Emma reproachfully.

  ‘For heaven’s sake that doesn’t matter, there’s a war on, Grace! I can’t worry about napkins at a time like this!’ Emma exclaimed, shaking her head, rolling her eyes at the ceiling. ‘Just let’s keep going, and once we’ve finished you should all sit down and eat some of the sandwiches and sausages, or the Scotch eggs. And Grace, you must make a pot of tea.’

  ‘That sounds grand, Mrs. Harte,’ Jack said with a laugh. ‘I must admit, I’m getting a bit peckish meself.’

  Emma glanced at her watch. ‘I’m not surprised, it’s turned eight o’clock already. Well, we’ve almost finished, and you’ve all done a wonderful job. Thank you very much.’

  ‘We want to help, do our bit,’ Glynnis said warmly, smiling at Emma.

  ‘Yes, we must do everything we can to help those who’ve been bombed out,’ Emma answered. ‘And Glynnis, please take a taxi home.’

  ‘I will, Mrs. Harte. Will you need me tomorrow?’

  ‘It’s nice of you to offer, but you must have a rest, it’s been a very busy week. I can manage with Jack and Tomkins, I’m quite sure.’

  ‘I can bring one of the chaps from my department,’ Jack volunteered. ‘Dennis Scott’s a good lad, he’ll be happy to oblige.’

  ‘That’s a good idea, Jack. And now I’ll say goodnight to you all.’

  ‘Don’t you want a bit of supper, Mrs. Harte?’ Grace asked.

  ‘Not right now, thanks. I have some work to finish.’ She smiled at them and made her way across the kitchen.

  ‘Good night, Mrs. Harte,’ they chorused as she left.

  The following morning Emma set off with Tomkins to the East End, following Jane and Bill Stuart Ogden in their car. The green Harte van, stacked with the hampers and carrying Jack Field and Dennis Scott, was at the rear.

  When they arrived at their destination Emma was speechless, as were the rest of their group. The onslaught of bombs had been massive, and the Luftwaffe had done its work well. The streets were levelled, rubble piled everywhere. It was the most horrendous devastation the likes of which none of them had ever seen or indeed even envisioned.

  They picked their way slowly and carefully over the rubble, passing out the food, saying comforting words to the men and women who were working in the piles of bricks and dust which had once been their homes.

  ‘Thank you, thank you,’ a woman said to Emma at one moment. ‘It’s right good of you to come and help us.’

  Emma’s eyes filled, and she was unable to speak; she simply touched the woman’s arm gently and walked on.

  And yet, despite the loss of their homes and the suffering they had endured, there were cheery smiles on many of the faces, and a frequent disparaging quip about the enemy would ring out, causing much laughter amongst them all.

  ‘How strong our people are,’ Jane said as they continued to pick their way across the rubble-strewn streets, distributing the food with Jack Field and Dennis Scott.

  ‘And brave,’ Emma added. Suddenly she came to an abrupt halt and grabbed hold of Jane’s arm. ‘Look! Over there! Everyone’s cheering. Isn’t that Winston Churchill?’

  ‘Oh my God, it is. Bill, it’s the Prime Minister. Look! Look! He’s standing over there on that pile of rubble, wearing a funny-looking hat and smoking his cigar.’

  Bill Ogden followed Jane’s gaze and saw for himself that it was indeed Winston Churchill, a man whom he had admired and been devoted to for many years, always supporting him in the House of Commons.

  ‘Come along, ladies,’ Bill said. ‘I shall take you over there to have a word with him.’

  And this he did.

  A few minutes later Bill was greeting the Prime Minister, an old friend and colleague, who turned, smiling, and shook hands with Bill and Jane, and then Emma was introduced to him.

  She was so awestruck and overwhelmed Emma could barely speak, but after shaking his hand she managed to say, ‘Thank you, Mr. Churchill, for inspiring us…’

  ‘And thank you,’ he answered, obviously realizing what their mission was this morning in the rubble-strewn East End streets.

  Later one of the air-raid wardens told Bill that Winston Churchill had had tears in his eyes when he had first viewed this terrible devastation. Emma nodded, knowing that everyone loved him that much more because he was not afraid to show his emotions.

  That night, when Elizabeth finally got home from the hospital, Emma saw how tired her daughter looked, and she fussed over her for a while.

  ‘There have been a lot of casualties,’ Elizabeth explained, as she and Emma finally sat down to eat sandwiches and drink a cup of tea in Emma’s den. ‘And this is just the beginning of the Blitz, Mummy. You’ve been saying it was going to get worse, and you were right.’

  ‘Unfortunately. Frankly, I wish I’d been wrong. Our boys are up there in the air every night, fighting the Luftwaffe, and now they’ll have to be up there during the day as well.’

  ‘Yesterday’s raid was catastrophic,’ Elizabeth murmured. ‘But we’re going to win, Mummy, you’ve instilled that in me.’

  ‘No, Winston Churchill has, and our fighter pilots are very brave.’

  ‘I’ll never forget what Mr. Churchill said last month, when he spoke about the fighter pilots. You won’t either, will you, Mummy?’

  ‘No, I won’t. Actually, I wrote it in my diary to remind myself. He said, “Never in the field of human conflict was so much owed by so many to so few.” As always he got it exactly right, and he said it in his own inimitable way.’

  ‘They will be all right, won’t they?’ Elizabeth now asked, looking at Emma intently. ‘Tony and Robin and Bryan?’

  ‘Yes, they will. I believe that, I truly do, darling. I must believe it, Elizabeth, because if I have any doubts about them surviving this war I’ll fall apart…’ Tears sprang into Emma’s eyes, and she blinked them back. ‘Years ago I taught myself to be positive in the worst moments of my life. That’s w
hat kept me going when I was a young girl, out on my own, struggling to make a living. You see, I couldn’t afford to have any negative thoughts then…and we can’t now.’

  ‘It’s nice to see you, Frank,’ Emma said, smiling at her brother. ‘But you look awfully tired and pale.’

  ‘I’ve always been pale, Emma, even as a child. Don’t you remember how you used to fuss around me and wrap me up in scarves. And send me out onto the moors to “get some colour in your cheeks,” you used to say.’

  She laughed. ‘I know I did, and you used to get very upset with me. But you are all right, aren’t you, Frankie?’

  ‘It’s Frankie again, is it? Do you know you hadn’t called me that for years until quite recently?’

  ‘Because you told me not to when you were young. You said our mam had told you that you were a big lad, and Frankie was a baby’s name. But I like it, perhaps because it’s affectionate.’

  Frank gave her a long, loving look, but said nothing. These two were very close, and he had always believed that his sister could read his mind. Whether she could or not was beside the point; she was certainly on the same wavelength as he was. ‘I am a bit tired, Emma, you’re right about that. Mostly because I’ve been working hard at the Express.’

  ‘How’s the great man?’

  ‘Which one? Beaverbrook or Churchill?’

  ‘Either. Both.’ Emma leant forward now, her face lighting up as she exclaimed, ‘Frank, I met Winston Churchill. Finally and at last.’

  ‘When? And where?’ he asked, fully understanding her excitement. He knew it must have been a thrill for her. Churchill was her great hero.

  ‘I met him last Sunday, September the eighth…only four days ago, to be precise. In the East End. I’d gone with Jane and Bill Stuart Ogden to take food to those poor people who had been bombed out, and he happened to be there. Bill introduced me. He’s just extraordinary.’

  ‘That he is, and he often goes out to inspect the bomb damage, to talk to people. They love him for that, for his immense humanity. He reaches out to common folk, and he touches and moves them in a way few politicians can. And, of course, Bill has always been a supporter of his, so no doubt the PM was glad to see him, to see all of you. Especially since you were being so kind, and helping. We’re all going to have to pitch in now that the Blitz has started.’

  ‘I was so overawed I could hardly speak,’ Emma admitted with a small, embarrassed laugh.

  ‘I know what you mean. It’s easy to be overwhelmed by him these days. He’s a monumental man. And you’ll see, one day, in the not-too-distant future, he’ll be thought of as a legend, Emm.’

  ‘To me he’s a legend now. I hope he’s well protected…he is, isn’t he, Frank?’

  ‘Oh yes, of course he is. He spends most of his time in his various bunkers.’

  ‘What do you mean bunkers?’

  ‘He’s got a lot of sort of…underground bolt holes, where he works and lives and sleeps. He’s not really at Number Ten Downing Street, you know. I think he pops in and out, but it’s far too dangerous. He could be so easily bombed there. Mostly he’s in the War Cabinet rooms. When he saw the room which was to be his he apparently said, “This is the room from which I will direct the war.” And that’s what he’s doing.’

  ‘Where are they, these War Cabinet rooms?’

  ‘I don’t know. Only the most privileged know that, Emma, but making a guess I’d say they’re somewhere in Whitehall.’

  ‘I’m glad to know the Prime Minister is in a safe place. But getting back to you, Frank, why do you have so much work at the moment?’

  ‘That’s a daft question for someone as smart as you, Emma. Because a lot of our young journalists have left. They’ve joined the armed services. So I’ve been writing more than usual. I enjoy it, though. I suppose the reason I’m also a bit more tired than usual is because I’m writing another novel and—’

  ‘Oh Frank, that’s just wonderful!’ Emma interrupted enthusiastically. ‘I love your books. What’s this one about?’

  ‘The war. What else?’ he said, and smiled at her. She was his biggest fan.

  ‘Do you think America’s going to come in to help us, now that we stand alone?’ she asked, changing the subject.

  ‘I’m not sure. I hope so. President Roosevelt’s a good man, and he and Churchill do seem to have a certain rapport. But he’s answerable to the American people, and they don’t want to go near this war. Oh no.’ Frank bit his lip. ‘Incidentally, the daylight bombing’s going to get worse, so be alert, Emma.’

  ‘You know I always am.’

  ‘How’s Elizabeth doing?’

  ‘She’s working hard. Thousands and thousands have been hurt in the last few days, you know, and she’s run off her feet at the hospital. Now she’s talking about helping out at the London Bridge tube station, where 8,000 people gather every night for safety.’

  ‘You can’t let her do that!’

  ‘I don’t know how to stop her. So I think perhaps I’d better go with her, to keep an eye on her, and to help those who are sheltering there.’

  ‘Oh, our Emma, you’re too much!’

  ‘Come on Frank, let’s go to lunch.’ As she spoke she rose, and together they left her office at the top of the store. ‘I think it’s a no-choice lunch today in the café.’

  ‘What on earth is that?’

  ‘Exactly what it says. No choice. Tomato soup followed by bangers and mash with fried onions. Not bad really, not when you consider there’s a war on.’

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  Winston Harte nodded when Emma had finished speaking, and said swiftly, ‘I think you’re absolutely correct, we do have to make changes at Yorkshire Consolidated, and this is what I propose. Let’s promote Martin Fuller to managing editor, and Peter Armstrong to managing director.’

  ‘But you’re managing director, Winston!’ Emma sat up straighter on the sofa and stared at her brother, frowning, her eyes turning anxious. ‘Please don’t tell me you want to leave the running of the newspaper company to someone else?’

  ‘No, not at all. Sorry, I don’t think I made myself quite clear. I ought to move up, too, become co-chairman with you, if that’s all right. I’ll still supervise, be on top of everything. But I’d feel much better knowing we had a managing director sitting at the main office in Leeds, and a managing editor alongside him. Both of them handling the day-to-day stuff right on the spot.’

  ‘Then we’ll do it, Winston. And frankly I’ve been worried about you lately. You’re burdened down between the Yorkshire stores, the Fairley mill, and the newspapers. And there’s also your involvement with Harte Enterprises. It’s too much.’

  Winston began to laugh. ‘Listen who’s talking. There’s nobody busier than you, and on top of your work you’ve taken on so much else–you volunteer for so much war work. I don’t know how you do it all. You’re running yourself ragged.’

  ‘When I think of what our troops are doing to keep us safe and win this war, my burdens seem light.’

  As she spoke, Emma picked up the silver Georgian teapot and poured another cup of tea for her brother and herself.

  The two of them were sitting in front of the fire in the upstairs parlour at Pennistone Royal. It was 1942, and a freezing afternoon in the middle of December. Emma had been in Yorkshire for a week, reviewing her business interests with Winston, and checking out the situation on her Yorkshire estate.

  Although Leeds, Bradford and Sheffield, and many of the other industrial cities in the north, had been bombed, Ripon and the Dales remained unscathed for the most part, although some Royal Air Force bases at Topcliffe and Dishforth had been near misses when the Luftwaffe had flown over. As far as Pennistone Royal was concerned, things were relatively normal, except for the food, petrol and other shortages affecting everyone in Britain.

  As he sipped his tea, Winston went on, ‘Marty and Pete are good chaps, talented and hard working, and devoted to you and Consolidated. It’s going to be fine, Emma.’
r />   ‘As long as you’re sitting on top of them, then I feel secure about things, although I do agree with you that they’re both smart and dedicated.’ Emma shook her head and made a small moue with her mouth. ‘I always hoped Frank would take over the running of the newspaper company, but it’s just not for him is it, Winston?’

  ‘No, it’s not. He’s never been interested, not even when you bought up the Sheffield papers in 1935 and started Consolidated. You offered him the top job and he said no. So that’s that. He’s a journalist, not a manager. To each his own, Emm.’

  ‘He loves the Express and working for Lord Beaverbrook and, let’s face it, Winston, Frank is the golden boy on that paper, a favourite of the Beaver and of Arthur Christiansen as well.’ She put her cup down in the saucer, and gave Winston a long, thoughtful stare. ‘I suppose Edwin Fairley will try to cling to the Yorkshire Morning Gazette until the day he dies.’

  Winston nodded. ‘That newspaper’s been in the Fairley family for three generations; you don’t think he’ll ever let go of it willingly, do you?’

  ‘No, I don’t suppose he will. But the paper’s lost a lot of its circulation.’

  ‘That’s because we’ve been giving it a run for its money. We’ve taken a lot of readers away.’

  ‘I know,’ Emma said with a small, satisfied smile. ‘But Edwin Fairley should stick to the law. He’s a much better barrister than he is a newspaper-owner, don’t you think?’

  ‘Remember, that plays in our favour. He’ll have to sell one day, and you’ll be able to buy it…for a song.’

  ‘Let’s hope you’re right. Talking of Frank, he said he and Natalie won’t be able to spend Christmas with us in London, because of her family. Do you think you can talk him into it?’

  ‘I do,’ Winston responded, but he looked slightly puzzled. ‘However, I don’t think I’ll have to, Emm. Frank told me only the other day that he has to be in London. He said Beaverbrook needs him for something special during Christmas, and that it’s mandatory.’

  ‘Oh, I’m glad. Then he will be able to come on Christmas Day after all. He’s probably not got around to telling me yet.’