The Emma Harte 7-Book Collection: A Woman of Substance, Hold the Dream, To Be the Best, Emma’s Secret, Unexpected Blessings, Just Rewards, Breaking the Rules. Barbara Taylor Bradford
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‘Emma wouldn’t see it that way. She loves you. Why, she worships the ground … You,’ Mel quickly corrected himself, and cleared his throat. Then his face brightened perceptibly as another thought struck him. He said rapidly, ‘Look here, if you don’t want Emma travelling, why don’t you book a passage to England yourself? You could be there in a month.’
‘That’s not feasible. I have to go to the hospital almost every day for treatment. There are no medical facilities of the kind I need on board a ship.’ Paul gulped down the scotch and placed his glass on the table. He brought his gaze back to Mel and his eyes were deadly serious, his tone bleak. ‘There is something I haven’t told you, Mel. The prognosis is bad. Very bad, actually. The doctors don’t know how long they can keep the infection out of my kidneys. That’s what usually kills paraplegics – kidney failure.’
Mel stared at Paul and his ruddy face lost most of its colour. ‘H-h-how l-l-long?’ he stammered, unable to complete the question.
‘Nine months – at the most,’ Paul replied in a matter-of-fact voice. He had already adjusted to his death sentence. He had no alternative.
Mel said with a desperate urgency, ‘I think we ought to call in more specialists, Paul. Surely there must be a way to—’
‘No, there isn’t.’ Paul said. ‘If I had broken my spine the doctors could have fused it. But the nerve ends of the spinal cord were crushed. There is no known way to repair those.’
Mel looked away into the fire. He had no words that would comfort Paul. The accident had been a catastrophe, but he had been led to believe Paul had years of life ahead of him, albeit confined to the wheelchair. But now … Oh, God, what a waste of a rare and brilliant man. Eventually, after a long silence, he said, ‘Is there anything I can do, Paul? Anything at all? You only have to ask me.’
Paul smiled gently. ‘No, old chap. Thanks, though. Don’t take this so hard. And for Christ’s sake, don’t start getting maudlin on me now. I need that cheery spirit of yours, and your optimism. Also, you’ve become my right arm and you’re going to be around me a great deal. I don’t want a glum face staring at me. Now come on, let’s have another drink and then we’ll dine. I’ve got some great Chambertin, which my father put down years ago. We’ll have a couple of bottles with dinner. Might as well drink it now, while there’s still—’ Paul bit off his sentence abruptly. He picked up the empty glasses, dropped them into his lap, and rolled over to the bar.
Mel was again unable to respond coherently. He reached for his handkerchief and blew his nose loudly. He looked at Paul’s wide shoulders and broad back outlined above the chair, and his eyes dimmed with infinite sorrow. It was heartbreaking to see that splendid body so horribly broken, that extraordinarily handsome face so hideously ruined. And yet how stoically this incredible man bore his afflictions. The admiration Mel had always held for his oldest and dearest friend increased inordinately. Paul’s unimpaired courage and his strength of character in the face of defeat were immense. He wondered if he could have been so brave and indomitable in similar circumstances. He was not sure. One thing he did know, Paul needed all the support he could get and he was going to do his damnedest to give it to him without reserve.
Much later that same evening, long after Mel had left, Paul sat in his dimly lit study, nursing a balloon of brandy and chain-smoking. His face was calm, his eyes thoughtful as he mused on the conversation of earlier. Perhaps Mel was right. Perhaps he should write to Emma and tell her the truth. In his previous letters he had underplayed the accident and used business as an excuse for his tardiness in not returning to England. Yes, he owed her that. The truth. For all they had been to each other and still meant to each other. And it must be the absolute truth. Nothing less would do for his Emma. He moved the wheelchair up to the desk, pulled a piece of notepaper towards him, and began the letter.
Sydney, July 24, 1939
My dearest darling Emma:
You are my life …
His eyes lifted and rested on the gold-framed photograph of her on the corner of his desk. He picked it up, gazing at it intently. It had been taken a few years after Daisy’s birth and Emma looked radiant and she was smiling that incandescent smile that was so uniquely hers. He thought his heart would burst with his love for her, and unexpected tears welled in his eyes and trickled down his cheeks unchecked. Paul held the photograph to his chest for a long time, hugging it to him as if it were Emma herself he held in his arms, remembering the past, pondering on the future. And he did not write the letter.
Frank Harte left El Vino’s bar and walked down Fleet Street towards the Daily Express, reflecting on the piece he had written earlier that evening. It still sat on his desk, for he had wanted an hour away from the office to think about the tone of it.
The hour in El Vino’s had not been restful. The bar had been jammed with reporters from all the newspapers, their faces grim, their voices sombre as they had talked about the political situation, which was worsening, and reviewing the depressing news flooding in from all parts of Europe. Now he asked himself if he had been excessive as he considered the piece, written for the Editorial Opinion page. But that fool Neville Chamberlain should be kicked out of office. Winston Churchill was, without doubt, the man they needed as Prime Minister, with war an inevitability. He knew the Old Man agreed with him on that issue. Beaverbrook and Churchill were long-time friends.
Frank crossed Fleet Street and looked up at the Daily Express, a shimmering sliver of black glass and steel and blazing lights, the modern architecture incongruous, juxtaposed against the time-worn buildings that flanked it on all sides. It was as if the Old Man had deliberately cocked a snook at tradition when he had built the Express, and yet nobody was more traditional than Lord Beaverbrook, tireless defender of the British Empire and all that it entailed. Jealous competitors considered the building to be an eyesore, an offence to the historic Street of Ink, but Frank loved it. He saw it as a tribute to modern journalism and the changing times. The Old Man had been right to build it, for it was certainly the most striking landmark on Fleet Street.
Pushing through the swinging doors of the Express, Frank traversed the lobby and took the lift up to his office. He threw his hat on a chair, sat down, picked up the column, and propped his feet on the desk. He read his words with as critical an eye as possible. It was good, damned good, even though he said so himself. He would let it stand. He jumped up and took it in to Arthur Christiansen.
Chris, young editor of the Daily Express, was the boy wonder of Fleet Street. Beaverbrook’s star protégé, he was the man responsible for changing the look and tenor of English popular journalism. In his shirt sleeves, his face flushed, his hair rumpled, he looked harassed but was obviously in total control behind the paper-strewn desk. He gave Frank a cheery grin. ‘I wondered what had happened to you. I was just about to send a copy boy over to El Vino’s to get you.’
Frank handed him the column. ‘I wanted time to think this over. I thought I might have been too strong.’
Chris’s bright, probing eyes focused on the pages of copy. He read them quickly. ‘Good man. It’s damned clever, Frank. We’ll run it as it stands. No changes necessary. If you tone it down it will lose its impact. The Old Man will like this. You’ve struck just the right note, as usual.’
‘You’re sure it’s not excessive?’
Chris grinned again. ‘I am. It’s very balanced, in fact. But then everything you’ve been writing about the world situation lately has been thoughtful. And damn it all, let’s face it, you are dealing with facts. Nobody can deny that.’ Chris wrote on the first page: Set as is. No changes. ‘Boy!’ he called, motioning to a copy boy loitering near the door of his office. ‘Run this down to the chief sub.’
Frank said, ‘If you don’t need me, I’ll get off. My sister’s expecting me. You have her number if anything comes up.’
Chris