Authors: Barbara Taylor Bradford
O
ver the years Emma had mostly walked to Harte’s in Knightsbridge, weather permitting. But of late it had become mandatory. She needed to traverse these familiar streets to reassure herself that all was well in this great metropolis of London, a city she had lived in half her life, and which she loved.
It comforted her when she saw the smiling, cheerful faces of the Londoners as they went about their daily tasks. The bobbies on their beat, the newsboys on the street corners yelling the headlines and selling their papers; the cabbies, the milkmen, the window-cleaners and the char-ladies, all of them stalwart and stoic and full of good cheer.
Also out on the streets these days were the Home Guard and the ARP wardens, their presence reassuring but most obviously underscoring the fact that England was at war. Sometimes it did not seem like it to her: there was a normality to daily life, and London was peaceful, still unscarred. There had been no invasion; nothing had happened over these long months since war had been declared last September. That was why so many people now called it the Phony War.
On this Friday morning in late May, Emma crossed Belgrave Square at a brisk pace, once again marvelling at the extraordinary weather. It was a blessing to have these warm, sunny days without clouds or even the merest hint of rain; there were moments when she felt there was a terrible beauty to this unusual summer. It was…
unreal,
that was the only word to use to describe it.
Yet the news was very bad indeed.
At this very moment thousands upon thousands of British and French troops were in retreat in France, falling back to the coastline as the advancing Wehrmacht divisions progressed from the Low Countries into the middle of France. The German army, millions strong, was pushing the Allied troops into Calais and Dunkirk, and RAF bases in France had been attacked once again.
Only last night the BBC had broadcast the latest and most dire bulletin: Allied troops would soon be trapped between German artillery and the sea. They would be sitting ducks on the beaches, under gunfire on land and air attack from the skies. The Luftwaffe would be up there in full force.
How do we get them off the beaches? Emma asked herself as she hurried along, her mind preoccupied with thoughts of war. Her eldest son Kit was in France and in danger, and so was Robin, who spent most of his time in the cockpit of a Spitfire, flying over France. As did her son-in-law Tony Barkstone, and Bryan, Blackie’s son. He was her surrogate son in a sense, since she had brought him up after Laura’s death, when Blackie was away fighting in the First World War.
Ronnie and Mark Kallinski were over there, and so was her nephew Randolph Harte, her brother Winston’s son. Her heart sank when she now considered what could happen: the youth of the three clans could so easily be killed. Just like that, in a flash.
France is going to fall, Emma suddenly thought, with a clarity that stunned her. Her step faltered for a moment, and then she took a deep breath and walked on determinedly. England will stand alone, she thought, and we will have to go on alone…because we have no alternative. It will be a fight to the death, though. Churchill will see to that.
Yesterday, Blackie and David had come up to London, and she had invited them to dinner at the Belgrave Square house. Because he had business to discuss with her, David had arranged to come a little earlier. At one moment he had expressed his worries about their sons and Blackie’s, and they had commiserated with each other, trying to give comfort in these alarming times when so many were in peril.
They had moved on after that, mostly talking about Lady Hamilton Clothes, which was currently producing uniforms for the armed forces instead of ladies’ fashions. Emma had not been unduly surprised when he had told her that they had, just the day before, received another large order from the government for winter overcoats for the army and air force.
‘As we both knew, Emma, the government are expecting the war to continue through this coming winter and into next spring,’ David had pointed out. And Emma had swiftly answered, ‘Yes, we’re in for a long siege, I’m afraid, David. We must face that now, not have any pipe dreams about the conflict being over soon.’ She had sighed and gone on, ‘Despite rationing and the blackout, and everything else we’re having to put up with, the war hasn’t really hit us yet. At least not here.’
Once they had finished talking about their joint business ventures, which went back years, David had suddenly exclaimed that she was looking more like her old self, even better than she had when he had seen her at Whitsuntide, earlier that month.
‘You’ve put on weight, filled out a bit. Yes, you look just wonderful. All you need is a bit of colour in those pretty cheeks of yours, Emma. Perhaps you should come to Yorkshire for a while, get out on the moors. It would be nice for me if you spent more time at the Leeds and Harrogate stores.’
She had not given much thought to his compliments or his affectionate embraces last night, because Blackie had suddenly arrived and had taken over in his inimitable way. And she had been busy helping Grace, and Mrs. Coddington, the cook, get dinner onto the table. Podges, her butler of several years, had left to join the Royal Navy, and Rita, the other parlour maid, had joined the ATS. And so she was short of staff. But they had managed very well, the three of them, and her two boys had enjoyed the dinner, relishing the home-cooked meal of Yorkshire pudding and roast beef.
And then this morning, when she was reviewing the evening in her head, she had suddenly wondered if David’s interest in her was no longer fraternal, as it had been for years. Did he see her as a potential lover all of a sudden? After all, he was a widower now. But she had no interest whatsoever in rekindling their old relationship, which had died a natural death thirty-odd years ago. However, she knew she must be careful with him. He was a very dear and old friend, and she must not hurt him; on the other hand, she didn’t want to give him the impression she was encouraging him. She must walk a very careful line.
Emma sighed under her breath as she pushed open the side door of Harte’s and went inside. The last thing she was interested in was an involvement with a man. Those days were over.
Absolutely.
Emma spent the morning at her desk, going over balance sheets, for the most part. But at one moment she opened a folder which held the inventories of the store’s goods in stock. Everything was listed, from clothes to foodstuffs.
As she quickly scanned the first few pages of the overall appraisals, she was relieved to see that they were in good shape, at least for the time being. But as the war continued she knew most things would be in short supply and difficult to obtain, especially food.
The food halls of Harte’s had been impressive from the first day she had opened the store. They were renowned the world over, and, of course, they had always been well stocked…stocked to the hilt, in fact, and especially with fresh produce such as baked and boiled hams, meat pies, pates, a variety of cheeses, cold meats and sausages, a selection of game pies, smoked salmon, smoked trout and the like. But she knew that these items would soon be in short supply.
I’ll just have to cope, she muttered to herself, leaning back in the chair, staring off into space for a moment, wondering where the supplies
were
going to come from eventually. Rationing had already been enforced some time ago.
The phone shrilled, cutting into her thoughts, and she picked it up. ‘Hello?’
‘Mrs. Harte, it’s Mr. O’Neill,’ her secretary Anita told her.
‘Oh yes, put him through, please.’
A moment later Blackie’s voice boomed over the phone. ‘Hello, Emma. Now, shall we have lunch today? Or dinner, whichever you prefer?’
‘Just the two of us?’ she asked, a lilt of laughter in her voice.
‘Sure an’ just the two of us! I couldn’t get a word in edgewise last night, I thought David would never stop talking. I love the lad, but…’ Blackie cut himself off, chuckled. ‘I’d like to have you to meself a bit, mavourneen.’
Emma smiled into the phone. ‘I think it
will
have to be lunch, Blackie, if you don’t mind. I promised Elizabeth I’d spend the evening with her. She’s so worried about Tony; a little upset because of the latest news.’
‘Understandable, understandable. So, lunch it is, then. How about the good old Dorch? Unless you’re getting bored with it.’
Emma laughed. ‘Bored with it! I haven’t been there since we had dinner together at Whitsuntide. I’ve not been out, actually, I’ve been working round the clock.’
‘That’s your problem, Emm. You’re always at it, and you always have been. You’ve got to slow down,’ he told her, his tone chastising.
‘Don’t be daft,’ she exclaimed. ‘You should know better than to say that–to me of all people.’
‘Aye, I should, considering the length of time I’ve known you. So, the Dorchester at one o’clock. Can you make it by then?’
‘Yes. I’ll be there on time.’
‘Well, there’s certainly no evidence of rationing or food shortages here,’ Emma murmured an hour later when she joined Blackie in the hotel’s restaurant, and scanned the menu. ‘Smoked salmon, smoked trout, cold lobster, Morecambe Bay potted shrimps, roast beef, shoulder of lamp, beef patties, steak-and-kidney pie and roast quail. Good heavens, so many things to choose from.’
‘Aye, you wouldn’t think we were living in dire times,’ Blackie agreed, nodding his great leonine head. ‘But all the luxury hotels are still serving three-course meals, and the food is delicious, as good as it’s always been. But for how long, I wonder? So, we might as well enjoy ourselves whilst we can. Do you know what you fancy, Emma?’
‘I think I’ll have the potted shrimps, and then grilled sole, thank you, Blackie.’
‘Sounds good to me, I’ll have the same as you.’ He gave her a broad smile and motioned to the waiter.
Once they had ordered lunch, the two of them talked about the war, mostly the upsetting news they had heard on the radio last night, about the plight of the troops in France.
At one moment Emma said, ‘I don’t know how we can get them off the beaches, Blackie. Surely the water’s too shallow for the destroyers to get in close to the shore, isn’t it?’
‘It is, and you can bet your bottom dollar that the sea is mined. The Germans aren’t stupid, you know.’ He shook his head again, his face grave, and then after glancing around the restaurant, he leaned closer to her. He said in a voice that was low, almost inaudible, ‘But we’re going to start this weekend…start doing something—’ He broke off as a couple walked past their table.
‘Doing what?’ Emma asked, drawing closer to him, her eyes on his.
‘I can’t go into details right now,’ he muttered. ‘Let me just say this, we’ll be using the little boats—’ Again he broke off as two army officers sat down at a table nearby.
‘How do you know?’
‘Oh Emma,
lass,’
he said quietly, ‘you know I can’t tell you that. And I wouldn’t even if I could. Better you don’t know who my…’ He dropped his voice and finished, ‘…government sources are.’
‘But what’s the plan?’ she probed, eager to know, unable to let go.
Blackie realized she would pester him until he gave her more information, but he was reluctant to talk in a public place like the Dorchester restaurant, and so he said, ‘I’ll walk you back to the store later, after lunch, and we can have a chat then.’
Emma nodded. ‘That’s a good idea.’ She changed the subject, and went on, ‘How long are you staying in London?’
‘Just for a few days. I have to get back to Leeds. We still have a couple of buildings under construction and I want to get ’em finished as soon as possible. But I really don’t know what’s going to happen with my business. A number of contracts have been cancelled because of the war.’
‘You’re not going to close down, are you?’ she cut in swiftly, eyeing him, worry settling on her face. She had always been concerned for him.
‘Oh no, no, lass, it’s not as bad as that. Tell you the truth, I have enough put away to carry the business for quite a long spell.’
‘I’m glad to hear that,’ Emma murmured, and was about to say that he should never worry, that she would always be there for him. Then she changed her mind. He was so proud; she didn’t want to upset him. Anyway, she was well aware he was a millionaire many times over, because of the success of his building company, his ownership of several office buildings and shops in Leeds, as well as other buildings in Harrogate and Sheffield. He was a fine builder, a brilliant businessman.
After this short silence, Blackie asked, ‘Any news from Edwina?’ As he spoke he wondered if he’d asked the wrong question.
Emma grimaced, and then shook her head. ‘I never hear from her. Never, although Winston sometimes does. She always loved her uncle, you know, and she did invite him to the wedding…The trouble with Edwina is that she’s stubborn, Blackie, as you well know, and that stubbornness sometimes gets in the way of her better nature. I hope she comes around one day.’
‘She will, to be sure.’ He looked across the table at her and began to chuckle, his black eyes merry.
‘What is it?’ she asked, staring back at him quizzically.
‘I remember the day we christened her, in the kitchen sink at Laura’s house in Upper Armley, because you were afraid to go to the church—’
‘I
wasn’t
afraid! I’ve never been afraid of anything,’ Emma exclaimed, cutting right across him. ‘I simply didn’t want the embarrassment of the vicar knowing she was illegitimate. And you
know
that, we discussed it at the time,’ she finished snippily.
‘Aye, I expect we did. And such a little itty-bitty thing you were in those days, Emma, a sprite. You were thin as a rail but so full of vim and vigour. I did admire you.’
‘I was strong, Blackie, and that was the most important thing of all.’