Emma’s Secret (37 page)

Not one voice joined in.

The drawing room was totally silent as they listened to his wondrous voice, and so he sang another verse, and then moved on quickly, thinking that perhaps this first Irish ballad had been overly poignant. And so he sang an Irish jig full of tongue-twisting names, and once again Emma recognized it immediately. He had also sung this jig on that long-ago day, and he had made it his second one then. After the jig he sang ‘Danny Boy’, a ballad that was one of Emma’s favourites–and apparently everyone else’s, too, since they sat listening raptly, not moving.

Finally, changing the mood, Blackie launched into one of the most popular songs of the day when he began to sing: ‘“There’ll be Bluebirds over the white cliffs of Dover, tomorrow, just you wait and see. There’ll be love and laughter, and peace ever after, tomorrow, when the world is free.”’

As he started the next verse, Blackie lifted his right hand and waved it around, motioning to the others to join in. Elizabeth leapt to her feet and ran to the piano, and Daisy immediately followed. A second later, David Amory was standing next to her, his arm around her waist, Emma noticed.

Others came too…Harry and Phil, the young American pilots, Robin and Kit, and then Bryan walked over and stood behind Blackie, his hands on his father’s shoulders.

They all sang along with Blackie as he started another verse, and then they repeated it, since everyone loved this particular wartime song.

When Blackie paused for a moment, Elizabeth bent down and said, ‘Uncle Blackie, could we have a Vera Lynn favourite? I know all of them, and I can sing, too.’

‘That I know, me darlin’,’ Blackie said, and began to play the song he heard her singing all the time. Elizabeth accompanied him, her voice quite lovely, just as he knew it would be.

‘“We’ll meet again, don’t know where, don’t know when, but I know we’ll meet again some sunny day. Keep smilin’ thro’ just like you always do. Till the blue skies drive the dark clouds far away.”’

The entire room had listened attentively without joining in, and now there were shouts for more, and clapping, but Elizabeth simply smiled and demurred, all the while looking across at Tony.

Phil began to sing ‘Paper Doll’, and Blackie picked out the tune, and many sang with him; then Matt asked Blackie to play ‘There’ll Always Be An England’, and everyone sang enthusiastically, and continued to do so with many more of the tunes Blackie and then Bryan played.

Listening to them, watching them enjoying themselves, Emma’s heart was full to overflowing. How handsome the boys look in their different uniforms, she suddenly thought. It had often struck her that there was something rather glamorous about uniforms, and a man wearing one was usually lethally appealing to women. But there was nothing glamorous about their jobs…what they did was terrifying. And they’re all so very, very young…some of them no more than boys. Why is it always the flower of a nation that has to go to war? she asked herself. Her heart clenched as her eyes swept over them, knowing what it was they would be doing tomorrow and the day after. And she looked at Blackie and her brothers, and thought: The young
have
to go, it’s always been so, because our other men are too old to fight; they could not stand the rigours of war. So it must be the young who put their lives on the line for us…

It was Charlotte who suddenly spoke up, and said, ‘Blackie, can we have a Christmas carol?’

‘Sure, me darlin’, and why not?’ Blackie answered, smiling broadly. ‘Come on, Bryan, me lad, and you too, Randolph. I know you two have often sung together: let’s have a bit of harmonizing here.’

Bryan and Randolph came around the piano and stood together facing the room, and the others moved back a little to give them space. And as Blackie struck a few chords, Emma recognized the first strains of the carol he had chosen for Bryan and Randolph to sing.

‘“Silent night, holy night,
All is calm, all is bright,
Round yon virgin mother and child
Holy infant so tender and mild
Sleep in heavenly peace,
Sleep in heavenly peace…”’

C
HAPTER
T
HIRTY
-S
EVEN

I
t was a glorious day in early October 1943, an Indian summer day. The kind of day Emma Harte could not resist. Golden sunshine streamed in through the leaded windows of the upstairs parlour at Pennistone Royal, flooding the room with incandescent light.

Emma had been writing in her diary, as she did each day, and now she put down her pen and closed the black leather book. Locking it in her desk drawer, she pocketed the key and stood up, walked across the room, and stood gazing out of the soaring window that faced the moors.

The sky was a lovely cerulean blue, filled with puffy white clouds, an unusual sky for October. Even in the summer months it was frequently overcast, bloated with dark clouds, as rain blew in from the North Sea. Such was the Yorkshire weather. Today was an exception.

The heather’s still lingering, she murmured to herself, noting the purplish tinge on the rim of the hills, how they beckoned her…She was a child of those stark implacable moors, had grown up amongst them under the high fells and great black rocks that rose like monoliths to touch the heavens. It had been her world, her most beloved world, and she was always drawn to it, yearned to be up in that desolate country, which was so glorious to her.

On an impulse, suddenly unable to resist, she hurried out and ran downstairs to the Stone Hall. After changing into a pair of her flat walking shoes which she kept in the armoire, she slipped into a loden-green wool coat and headed towards the office at the end of the hall.

As she went in, Glynnis looked up from her typewriter and gave Emma a small smile. ‘I was just going to come up and see you, Mrs. Harte. I have your letters ready to sign, and—’

‘Would you mind if I did it later, Glynnis? I need a breath of air to clear my head. I’ll only be gone a short while, a quick walk on the moors.’

‘That’s fine,’ Glynnis murmured, turning back to her typewriter.

‘Is everything all right?’ Emma asked, frowning, staring hard at her secretary. ‘You seem a bit wan today.’

‘I’m fine.’ Glynnis smiled at her once more.

Emma noticed at once that it was another faltering smile, but she made no reference to it. Glancing at her watch, she said, ‘Why don’t you go to the kitchen, Glynnis dear? Hilda will make you a little lunch, a cup of tea. It’s almost one o’clock, you know.’

‘Thank you, Mrs. Harte, I think I will.’

Nodding, smiling at her secretary, Emma closed the door behind her as she went out. Once outside she walked off in the direction of the moors, passing the beautifully designed parterres as she did so. She paused for a moment to inspect them with her eagle eye, but they were perfect today; she had always loved their geometrical designs, which did need intense care and weeding. As she moved on she saw Mr. Ramsbotham, the head gardener, in the distance. He was with his young nephew, Wiggs, who one day would take over from him. She waved to them. They both waved back, and Mr. Ramsbotham, who was wearing a cap, doffed it to her.

Within minutes Emma was heading up the steep path, making for her favourite spot under the ‘monoliths’, as she always called them. Although she had not been up on the moors for several months, she did not find the climb hard–quite the contrary. At the end of April she had been fifty-four, but she knew she did not look it and she certainly did not feel it. Thank God I’m so fit and healthy, so strong, she thought as she pushed on up the steep incline. She was anxious to reach the summit, where she felt she could touch the sky if she stood on tiptoe and reached up a little bit.

She smiled inwardly, thinking of her brothers and Blackie, and how the three of them had always teased her about the moors, and her unwavering passion for them. Long ago she had stopped trying to explain what they meant to her. How could she put into words this almost mystical feeling she had about them? Sometimes she felt as though they belonged to her and her alone…they were a safe place…her haven. Whenever she was troubled she came up here to think, to sort out the problems in her head; sometimes she just came because she loved to walk across them. There were times she craved their solitariness and the solitude that abounded here.

After a twenty-minute climb she finally reached the huge pile of black rocks, which seemed so precariously balanced they looked as if they could topple over on a windy day. But they had been here for aeons and aeons, she knew that.

It was windy up here and she quickly slid into the niche between the two rocks. She sat down on the stone she had once had a gardener place there as a seat for her. That had been in 1932. Eleven years ago now, she thought…how time flies…like those birds on the wing soaring into the sky. They were in a ‘V’ formation. ‘V’ for victory, she murmured to herself, and no sooner had that thought entered her mind than she spotted the bombers coming in, flying low across the blameless blue sky in the same ‘V’ formation. ‘V’ for victory, she thought yet again, smiling, filled with relief and joy. They’d made it
home…
were coming back to their airfields, Dishforth or Leeming, or perhaps Topcliffe, where Tony had been stationed for special training at the beginning of the war. Obviously they had been on a bombing raid over Germany…they were home safe. As they droned overhead, she stood up and found herself saluting them…the sons of mothers just like her. Her heart swelled with pride.

Emma sat for a while, staring out at the vast panorama that spread itself in front of her: the valley below, and beyond the continuation of the endless moors, empty, desolate, solitary and without life. Except for the larks and linnets with their joyous songs…the tender little birds of her childhood days.

It seemed to Emma that time had just sped by since Christmas. So much had happened in the last ten months. The war was progressing quite well…it had become a world war in 1941 after Germany had invaded Russia and the Japanese had bombed Pearl Harbor. The Americans had been fighting alongside them for some time now…in Europe, North Africa and the Far East. There had been defeats, but triumphs, too, for the Allies, and everyone was optimistic.

Emma believed they would win the war, just as Winston Churchill had always predicted, especially now that they had the valiant and courageous Americans on their side. She thought of the young pilots she had met through Robin, and here in Yorkshire, and she had been impressed with all of them. Her sons were still safe and unharmed, as were all of the sons of the three clans, and for that she was thankful. They were all thankful.

The spring had passed quickly this year, with Robin coming and going, bringing his comrades-in-arms to ‘bunk down’ with them, as he called it, and with David Amory always tagging along. There had been much laughter and gaiety, the sound of the gramophone playing constantly, the clink of glasses, the peals of laughter, the songs around the piano. She had loved those months: their youth and high spirits had drowned out the wail of the sirens, the harsh gunfire from the anti-aircraft guns in Hyde Park, the deafening sound of exploding bombs.

She had taken them all under her wing, loving them, spoiling them, and most especially David.

It had come as no surprise to her when he had approached her this past May and asked her permission to marry Daisy when she became eighteen. ‘But that’s next week!’ she had exclaimed, and he had answered, ‘Yes, I know, Mrs. Harte, but there’s a war on.’ She had been unable to refuse them, they were so much in love. And she approved of young David with his boundless charm and sweet nature. Besides that, Emma knew that she had set her own precedent by allowing Elizabeth to marry Tony at eighteen. There was no way she could say no to her most beloved child, the love child of Paul McGill. And their wedding had turned out to be the happy event of the summer of 1943.

She herself had been somewhat bogged down with work since the beginning of the year, as she invariably was. But she refused to give up her war efforts, even though Winston was always on her back, telling her she was exhausting herself. Emma felt honour-bound to pitch in and do her bit, that was her nature. And she often went with Elizabeth to London Bridge tube station to bring food, kind words and comfort to the Londoners who were sheltering there. Daisy was a willing volunteer as well. Emma also gave money to various needy causes, and raised money for them, and ran a canteen for the troops.

Suddenly she began to laugh, remembering how Jack Field had protested when she had decided to use the basement of Harte’s for the canteen, asking her if she had a permit to do such a thing. Jack’s objections, albeit uttered in mild tones, had surprised her. She had glared at him most ferociously and snapped,
‘Permits?
Who needs
permits?
There’s a war on. And anyway, in case you’ve forgotten, this is
my
store. I own it, and if I want to have a canteen in the basement, I’ll have one!’

Within ten minutes, after she had calmed down, she had been chagrined, filled with the utmost remorse at the way she had spoken to Jack, one of her most loyal and devoted employees. And she had run down to his office behind the food halls and apologized most profusely; he had been relieved that she was not going to give him the sack, that she was so forgiving. ‘There’s nothing to forgive, Jack,’ she had told him softly. ‘Well, let’s put it this way,
you
have to forgive
me
for speaking to you so harshly, and so very rudely. I value everything you do for me. I’m so sorry.’

He had nodded and smiled and explained, ‘I was just worrying about things like fire regulations, Mrs. Harte, and the number of people we are allowed to have there, and whether the canteen would affect store security in any way.’

Emma now understood that he had only been doing his duty, and she had castigated him for it. She had listened to him most carefully as he had outlined the inherent problems, and of course he was right; she had been wrong, carried away in her enthusiasm and desire to help the fighting forces. Instead of using Harte’s basement she had bought a warehouse just off Fulham Road, and this had been turned into a canteen for the troops. It had become a great success, and she and Jack had remained good friends and colleagues. He even elected to work at the canteen once a week, as she herself did. They both enjoyed it.

A sudden smile illuminated Emma’s face, and in an instant she was transported back to a memorable evening at the canteen, not so long ago that she didn’t remember the details. The weeks and months fell away…she stepped back into her memories of the recent past…

‘Mummy, look, over there, at Glynnis dancing with Bryan,’ Elizabeth said, tugging at her arm, ‘isn’t she a wonder, the way she’s jitter-bugging. Gosh, they’re like Ginger Rogers and Fred Astaire. They ought to be in the pictures together.’

Emma followed the direction of Elizabeth’s gaze and she had to agree. Her daughter was correct, Glynnis really was a fantastic dancer, whirling around on her high-heel wedge shoes, her dress flaring as Bryan spun her around and out, then pulled her back to him and twirled her again. It was obvious they were enjoying themselves, intent on their dancing.

‘The two of them do look very professional. My goodness, I’ve never seen anyone dance together the way they do, except on the silver screen,’ Emma murmured. ‘They’re a perfect team, just as you said.’

Emma and Elizabeth were standing near the bar in her canteen on the Fulham Road, watching the young Englishwomen and servicemen of various nationalities jitterbugging. Earlier, the two of them had made stacks of sandwiches and served them to the boys, along with cups of tea and coffee, lemonade, Tizer pop and beer. And quite a few glasses of Paul McGill’s vintage wine. Jack Field had managed to get Emma a liquor licence for the canteen, and now they could serve alcoholic beverages. ‘And what better way to dispose of some of that wine?’ she had asked her brothers Winston and Frank, who had agreed with her wholeheartedly.

Frank and Winston were with them at the canteen tonight, along with Robin, who had been given a two-day pass unexpectedly, as had Elizabeth’s husband, Tony Barkstone. Emma liked coming to work at the canteen, to talk to the boys from the different services, to give them a bit of mothering, comfort and encouragement. And it warmed her heart to see how much they enjoyed being there having a little fun.

Tony, who had been playing darts, now came over and joined them, putting his arm around Elizabeth’s waist, drawing his wife closer. Suddenly the jitterbug music came to an end, and Emma noticed Frank was at the gramophone, putting on another record. Within seconds the strains of Glenn Miller playing
Moonlight Serenade
was filling the canteen with the captivating swing; music popularized by Glenn Miller’s big band.

Bryan began to lead Glynnis around the floor at a slower pace, obviously reluctant to release her, but he had to do so when Frank tapped him on his shoulder, cutting in. It was Frank’s turn to sway to the music with her.

Emma smiled to herself when she spotted Robin making a beeline for them, and she knew her son was about to cut in, just as Frank had done a moment before.

‘I must say, Glynnis is very popular,’ Emma said to Elizabeth and Tony. ‘I bet she’ll dance with almost every serviceman tonight, she’s such a good sport.’

Tony agreed, and added, ‘Anyway, she happens to be the best dancer who comes to work at the club. She’s as light as a feather on her feet.’

‘Have you heard her sing, Mummy?’

‘No, I haven’t, Elizabeth.’

‘She’s got a golden voice, very lovely.’

‘The Welsh are wonderful singers,’ Tony informed them. ‘They have very special vocal chords.’

Emma stared at her son-in-law in surprise. Tony constantly amazed her; he was always full of tidbits of information. But there was some truth to what he had just said. ‘Yes, the Welsh choirs are renowned,’ Emma murmured, looking past him at Frank, who was strolling over to join them.