Authors: Barbara Taylor Bradford
Emma had been attentive to the young woman’s every word, concentrating on the details of the over-charged romance now gone wrong. And she fully understood that nothing was going to change. Not now. The man had vacated her life; he would not come back. And Emma was quite certain that Glynnis was well aware of this.
When Glynnis finally finished, she sat back, paused for a second, then murmured in a subdued voice, ‘Now you know it all, Mrs. Harte. You know my terrible predicament.’
‘Indeed I do, Glynnis,’ Emma answered, and thought: Only too well do I know what you are facing, but said, ‘Basically, you are on your own. At least that is what you believe. But you’re not, in fact, because you have me, and I am going to help you through this tough time in your life. I’m going to make sure you have a proper doctor, wages while you take maternity leave, a job waiting for you after the baby’s born. This I promise you.’
Glynnis, taken aback by Emma’s sympathy, kindness and generosity, was silent, staring at this powerful woman, an uncomprehending expression in her eyes. At last she said slowly, ‘Why would you do this for me, Mrs. Harte? Don’t think I’m not grateful, because I am. But
why?’
‘Because I’m fond of you, Glynnis, and because once, long ago, when I was only a girl, much younger than you, I was in a similar position. I had no one to help me at one particular moment, and so all I craved was money, because I knew money would be my salvation, the salvation of my child. I knew money would protect the baby, protect me, and I strove hard to acquire it. A lot of it. So you see, I
know
first-hand that money is the most important thing to a single mother, as well as a little understanding and kindness from others, if it’s available. But it isn’t always, you know. Most people turn a blind eye, or treat you like a leper.’
‘That’s true, I’m sure.’ Glynnis took a deep breath. ‘I don’t know what to say, Mrs. Harte.
Thank you
doesn’t seem quite enough.’
‘Oh it is, Glynnis, of course it is. I just want you to try not to worry now that we’ve had this talk.’
‘I do worry, I’m afraid it’s my nature.’ Glynnis stopped, bit her lip, and said in as steady a voice as she could summon, ‘Mrs. Harte, a while ago you spoke about Richard Hughes, my GI boyfriend. You said he seemed attentive and caring, protective even…’
‘Yes, I did say that. And it was my honest observation, Glynnis.’
‘Richard loves me, and he wants to marry me, and I was thinking that perhaps…well…actually, I wondered what
you
thought about it? I mean about me marrying Richard? Wouldn’t it be a solution…to my
predicament?’
Emma, momentarily startled though she was, kept her face neutral, displayed nothing as she sat back in the chair, giving Glynnis a keen and somewhat appraising look. ‘Do you have any feelings for him, Glynnis? I thought you were so madly in love with the other man that you couldn’t see straight.’
‘That’s true, Mrs. Harte, I just told you, I loved
him
too much. But I like Richard a lot, you can’t
not
like him, he’s so kind and good-natured. And he’s crazy about me, so I suppose I could grow to care for him in a
good way
…’ Her voice trailed off when she saw the stern look settling on Emma’s face. ‘What’s wrong, Mrs. Harte? Why are you looking at me like that?’
‘I was thinking that–if what you’re saying about Richard is true–you cannot possibly deceive a man as good and kind as him. It would be dishonest, and dishonourable. You cannot let him think this child is his.’
‘Oh, but I wouldn’t do that!’ Glynnis cried, her voice rising shrilly. ‘Anyway, it couldn’t be his, because we…well, we haven’t, you know, done anything like that.’ Glynnis stopped abruptly, her face now scarlet with embarrassment. ‘I’m not promiscuous.’
‘Forgive me, Glynnis, I didn’t mean to imply that you were. However, you did appear to be rather close to him when I saw you together at the Fulham Road canteen, so I made an assumption. That was totally wrong of me, and I apologize. I would never cast aspersions on your morals, my dear. I understand life too well to do that.’
‘It’s all right, Mrs. Harte, please don’t get upset.’ Glynnis swallowed hard and, dropping her voice, she added
sotto voce,
‘I was a virgin until I fell in love with
him
…he was the first man I…knew.’ Her voice was lower, as she added, ‘You
know
what I mean.’
‘I see.’ Emma rose, went to look out of the window, staring down at the parterres. ‘Best seen from above,’ the young Wiggs was always telling her. He was such a sweet little boy…they were all sweet when they were boys.
Returning to the chair, Emma now continued: ‘So…how will you go about this, Glynnis? Are you simply going to accept Richard’s proposal, and then tell him you’re pregnant? Explain to me how you intend to proceed.’
‘I don’t know,’ Glynnis said quietly, looking suddenly more subdued and downcast than ever. ‘Perhaps I should just tell him the truth, say that I’m pregnant, that the man’s not standing by me, and ask him if he still wants to marry me. That
I’d
be willing, if he is.’
Emma said nothing, turned this over in her mind, her eyes narrowing.
‘What do you think, Mrs. Harte?’
‘I think it’s the only way to approach it, I really do,’ Emma replied finally. ‘I think in this particular instance, honesty is your best policy.’ Leaning forward, focusing on her secretary, Emma explained: ‘You have nothing to lose. If Richard turns you down and walks away from you, then you have your fall-back position.
Me.
You know I won’t break my word to you, Glynnis. I will help you all I can, and for as long as you need my help. I promise you that.’
‘Thank you, thank you very much. And will you promise me something else, Mrs. Harte?’
‘If I can keep the promise, then of course I’ll make it. What is it?’
‘Whether I marry Richard or not, I don’t want anyone to know who the father of my child is, not ever. You must promise me that you’ll never tell a soul.’
‘I promise I won’t tell anyone
ever,
Glynnis, not as long as I live.’
Glynnis sighed in relief. ‘You see, if Richard doesn’t marry me, I’ll figure out a story about the father of the baby. It’s 1943 and there’s a war on, and there are a lot of dead heroes already…I’ll invent a good story to protect my child…’
Emma nodded, but remained silent.
‘Perhaps it doesn’t sound very nice, but it’s only a sort of…well, a white lie, isn’t it? You see, I wouldn’t want the world to know that
he
had…abandoned me. It would be humiliating. Do you understand that?’
‘I certainly do. However, remembering how beautifully your nice GI treats you, I feel certain he’ll marry you. Why wouldn’t he? You’re very lovely, Glynnis, and a very nice girl. He’d be a fool not to marry you.’
E
mma picked up the silver-framed photograph of Daisy and David, taken at their marriage in May of 1943, and breathed on the glass. Then she rubbed it with the yellow duster she held in her small hand, removing the fingerprints.
There, that’s better, she murmured to herself, staring down at the picture, thinking how lovely Daisy looked in her wedding dress. It was made of pale blue silk and she wore a matching picture hat, and carried a nosegay of summer flowers. Almost two years ago. Now she was a mother, having given birth to a baby girl in January of this year, 1945.
Stepping closer to the long library table in her Leeds office, Emma put the photograph back in its place, and picked up the latest one of her newest granddaughter.
Paula McGill Harte Amory.
How surprised Emma had been the day of her granddaughter’s birth, when she had gone to the London Clinic to see Daisy. ‘I’ve chosen the baby’s first two names, Mummy,’ Daisy had announced. ‘I’m going to call her Paula McGill. After my father.’ Emma would never forget how flabbergasted she had been. Daisy had simply laughed and said, ‘Don’t look so
shocked.
Honestly, Mummy, for a woman as sophisticated as you are, you can be awfully naïve sometimes. Did you think I didn’t know Paul was my father?’
Emma had not known what to say, how to answer her. Daisy had gone on to explain that she had worked it out for herself when she was quite a small child. ‘And anyway, I realized how much I resembled him physically. And when I was twelve he told me himself. He told me he was my biological father.’ She had been stupefied, had gaped at Daisy, who had laughed again, but very gently this time. And then Daisy had told Emma how much she loved her and Paul; that they had been the best of parents. But now Emma recalled that she had remained a little flustered all that day.
His heiress,
Emma thought, as she put the picture back on the table and reached for the one of her first grandson, Alexander Barkstone. Elizabeth had given birth to him in February of 1944. He was a handsome little devil, gurgling there at his christening, the spitting image of his father Tony. She set the photograph down, and leant closer to the table, now looking at the wedding picture of Robin. He had married Valerie Ludden in January of 1944, a nursing friend of Elizabeth’s, who had been their matron-of-honour. They look well together, Emma decided, and she’ll be perfect for him, good for his career. The right choice. She stared at her favourite son. How good-looking and clever he was. Recently he had told her he was going into politics after the war.
After the war,
she thought, moving away from the table; how glibly we say that these days. But the end
was
near. Everyone knew it. And Churchill kept saying it. They
were
winning the war, with the help of their greatest ally, the Americans. Thank God the Yanks, as Robin called them, had come in to fight alongside their troops. They might not have made it without them. And certainly not without Winston Churchill, the greatest leader their country had ever known. Deep in her heart Emma believed that Churchill had been their salvation, and that it was he who had brought them to victory, a victory hard won and honourable.
Walking back to her desk, Emma suddenly thought of Glynnis Jenkins, with affection. Eventually Glynnis would go to America as a GI bride.
She was Glynnis Hughes now, having married her nice GI boyfriend in December of 1943. The wedding had been at a local chapel in her home town in the Rhondda Valley, and everyone had had a grand time, Glynnis had told her afterwards. Especially the Jenkins family. They had discovered that Richard’s forebears had come from that part of Wales before emigrating to America a century before.
Glynnis’s son had been born in April of 1944, and they had called him Owen, a favourite Welsh boys’ name. He was just a year old this month. Emma made a mental note to send him a card and an appropriate present. She and Glynnis had stayed in touch; there was a deep friendship between them. And without knowing it, perhaps, Glynnis had averted a disaster.
Marriages and births, that’s what make the world go around, Emma thought, and then looked at the door as it burst open, startling her.
Her brother Winston hurried in, moving so rapidly she thought he might trip. From the look of him she thought something dreadful must have happened, perhaps to one of their boys. His face was drained of all colour and stricken, and his eyes were dark with pain.
Automatically, she jumped to her feet, all of her senses alerted to trouble. ‘Winston, whatever is it? You look…
demented’
She took a deep breath and steadied herself for bad news. ‘It’s not one of our boys, or Blackie’s or David’s, is it?’ she asked, her voice faltering slightly.
‘No, no,’ he was swift to answer, wanting to reassure her, seeing the fear in her eyes.
‘But what is it? You seem so perturbed, so distressed.’
‘I am. And so will you be. It’s hard for me to explain here. You have to
see.
You have to come across the street to the
Evening Standard.
They’re waiting for you. We have some important decisions to make. About what to put in the next edition today. The first one’s already on the street. I want you there because the decision will be yours ultimately. It’s your newspaper, you own it, and you’ve got to call the shots today, Emma. The editorial shots.’ He grabbed her arm and started to pull her away from her desk. ‘Come on, it’s urgent!’
‘But for God’s sake, Winston, tell me what’s wrong? What is this all about?’ She struggled to free herself from his grip and stared into his face, trying to understand. ‘Please tell me before we go over to the paper. You owe me that.’
‘I do.’ Winston Harte took a deep breath. ‘American troops marched into Buchenwald yesterday…Thursday the twelfth of April, 1945. Don’t forget the date. What they found boggles the mind. Prisoners in such appalling and horrendous condition the Americans thought they were
dead.
But they weren’t. Just tortured beyond belief. It’s been wholesale murder for years. The Nazis have committed the most vile atrocities imaginable. They’ve murdered millions. It’s genocide…’ Tears were running down Winston’s face, but Emma was sure he didn’t know, so emotionally disturbed was he. He stared at her, then brushed his face with his hands, absently. ‘David Kallinski was always right, Emma, when he told us the reports were toned down, minimized.
Millions and millions.
The Nazis have murdered
millions
of Jews…’
She was looking at him almost uncomprehendingly, and then she said, very slowly, ‘But Winston, they wouldn’t dare.’
‘They dared,’ he said.
They walked across Commercial Street to the back entrance of the newspaper company, which faced the front of Harte’s store, the most important and imposing in Leeds. They entered the building through the circulation department. Here the vans waited to be loaded with the newspaper’s edition, which was then distributed throughout the city and suburbs, as well as outlying districts and other nearby towns.
The familiar smells of damp newsprint and ink greeted them as they went in, making Emma feel instantly at home. These were her newspapers and she loved them; she nodded to the men who turned to greet her, wished them good morning.
As they went up the back stairs to the offices of the
Yorkshire Morning Standard
and its sister paper, the
Evening Standard,
Winston suddenly drew to a halt and took hold of Emma’s arm.
They had barely spoken since leaving the store a few minutes earlier, both caught up in their troubled thoughts. Now he said, very quietly, ‘Brace yourself, love. You’re in for a shock.’
She simply nodded and they continued on up the stairs, through the linotype room, where the typesetters waved to her or called out greetings. Finally they came into the corridor of the editorial offices and hurried down to Martin Fuller’s office. It seemed to Emma that an air of gloominess pervaded the newspaper company this morning. Usually she was energized by the activity and excitement of news-gathering; today it was oddly absent.
Just before entering Marty’s office, Emma straightened her black jacket, adjusted the collar of her white silk shirt. Then she nodded to Winston. They went in.
Only twenty-seven, Marty was a boy genius in Emma’s eyes, very much from the same school as Arthur Christiansen, editor of the
Daily Express,
where her brother was the leading columnist. Chris, as he was called by everyone, had changed the look of the
Daily Express.
Marty had done the same with the
Yorkshire Morning Standard
and the
Evening Standard.
Marty was on the phone, but he said goodbye and instantly hung up at the sight of Emma, and Winston, his immediate boss.
After they had greeted each other, Emma said, ‘Winston tells me the news is horrendous.’
Marty nodded, but said nothing.
She suddenly noticed the strain on the managing editor’s face, his pallor. ‘We’d better get to work. It’s a matter of urgency because of the next edition, isn’t it?’ she said.
‘I had to let that one roll, Emma. It’s got to be on the streets at ten o’clock and it’s already nine-twenty. It’s printing now as we speak. If we make some quick decisions I can revamp the front page, maybe more, for the noon edition.’
‘Let’s go to the newsroom then,’ Winston said.
‘I’ve got everyone working at the conference room table. The editor, the chief sub, the news editor, the pictures editor, my layout man, several of our top reporters…it seemed easier to have them all together, Emma.’
Emma sat in the midst of Marty’s team, a group of hardworking newspapermen with their sleeves rolled up ready for action, their eyes on her, but also occasionally glancing at the big clock on the wall opposite. The deadline for the next edition was creeping closer and they were all fully aware of that.
‘Some of the national dailies have carried stories this morning, but not too many pictures. Remember, they were going to press last night, and in the early hours of this morning, when the story was breaking,’ Eric Knowles, the editor of the
Evening Standard,
reminded her. As he spoke he pushed the papers towards her, but she barely glanced at them.
‘Are you telling me we have much more information already?’ she asked Eric, pinning her eyes on him intently.
He nodded, and turned to the news editor, Steven Bennett. ‘Tell Emma what we have.’
‘Loads of stuff has been rolling in all night, from Reuters and the other wire services and our own correspondents. We certainly have a lot more information now than was available last night. It’s still coming in. And we have the pictures.’
Jack Rimmer, the pictures editor, interjected, ‘They’re horrific, Emma. Almost unbearable to look at.’
Swallowing hard, she said, ‘I’d better see them, Jack.’
He pushed a pile of wire service photographs towards her, and she began to shuffle through them. Horror spread across her face and her eyes held a stunned expression as she looked up, and stared for a moment at the pictures editor. She couldn’t bear to look down again at the photographs spread out before her, but she knew she had to do so. They wanted her to make the decision about what went in the paper…it was clear that, in this instance, it was her responsibility.
Finally she lowered her eyes again and focused on the pictures once more.
They were graphic; told a foul and inhuman story of torture and the most unspeakable brutality and cruelty ever known to man. It was mass murder of innocent people on a grand scale, a scale so vast it stunned in its magnitude, and Emma was speechless with shock. Naked and half-naked people, emaciated beyond recognition as human beings, were hollow-eyed and without hair, living skeletons as they stared out at her from tiered bunks and from behind the barbed-wire fences of the camps. The images were chilling.
There were more photographs equally as disturbing and horrific, of gas ovens and torture chambers and piles and piles of dead bodies dumped carelessly like so much rubbish in mass graves. All victims of the highly efficient and relentless Nazi death machine…She was nauseous, could think of no words strong enough to describe this atrocity, so appalling was it.
Emma could not stop trembling and her eyes filled with tears. She compressed her mouth and snapped her eyes shut for a moment, striving for control, not wanting to break down completely in front of these tough newspapermen. But when she finally opened her eyes a moment or two later and looked at them she saw their sombre, ashen faces and the horror and pain in their eyes also. Groping for a handkerchief in her pocket, she wiped her eyes and blew her nose, but the tears started again and it took her a moment to compose herself.
Taking a deep breath, she said, ‘This has to be the most heinous and barbaric crime against humanity that has ever been committed in the history of the world.’
‘It is,’ Marty agreed. ‘Millions have been killed. And the wire service stories now coming in are predicting a lot more dire news. Other camps are being liberated by American and British troops as we are speaking…they’re starting to go into Dachau, Belsen, and Ravensbruck, to name only a few. God only knows what other atrocities they’ll find.’
Winston glanced at his watch and said, ‘Do you have some front pages for us to take a look at, Marty?’
The managing editor nodded, and beckoned to Johnny Johnson, his brilliant layout man. ‘Bring those front pages over here, Johnny, for Emma and Winston to see.’ As he spoke Marty also looked at the clock on the wall. ‘Time is ticking,’ he muttered.
The layout editor spread the first mock-up in front of Emma and Winston, who was sitting next to her.
Emma stared down at it, and shuddered involuntarily. There was a large photograph of the skeletal prisoners staring out hollow-eyed from behind barbed wire, and a banner headline of one word only: GENOCIDE.