Barbara Bradford - A Woman of Substance

Emma had the most overwhelming impulse to spit in his face, but she exercised restraint, not wishing to lower herself to his level. ‘Leave my house immediately, Gerald Fairley, and don’t ever come back-unless you want to encounter real trouble.’

He swung around, stumbling down the stairs, laughing raucously. Emma followed him, her rage fulminating. She stood at the top of the stairs and watched him descend, ponderously dragging his immense weight. She flung the scissors after him angrily and they rattled on the stone steps, landing at his feet. He looked up, leering at her. ‘That’s not polite,’ he said.

‘You’re not worth swinging for, Gerald Fairley!’ she screamed. Emma now sped down the stairs, propelled by her mounting fury. When she reached the bottom step she stared up at him, utterly fearless and totally in command of herself, her hatred blazing on her face.

She took a step nearer and said with deadly coldness, ‘But I will ruin you! All of you! The Fairleys will rue the day they ever heard the name Emma Harte. Do you hear me? I will ruin you! I swear I will!’

‘You ruin us! You? A whoring little tramp? Fat chance you have.’ Gerald chucked her under the chin lightly and, infuriated, Emma struck out at him. Her nails clawed his face and brought blood.

‘Why, you bloody little bitch!’ Gerald shouted, and then he threw back his hideous head and laughed. ‘I like a tiger, Mrs Harte, as I said before. Don’t forget, I’ll be back. I’m always in the vicinity. I’ll pop in one afternoon for a bit of fun.’

‘Get out! Get out!’

The moment the door banged behind him Emma turned the key and drew the bolts hurriedly. She went into the parlour and closed the curtains and washed the disgusting stain off her dress, scrubbing it with a cloth until it was spotless. Then she sat down in front of the fire, her body convulsed by dry heaving sobs. She felt sick and shaken and apprehensive. For the first time in years she was once again afraid of the Fairleys. Thank God Edwina was in Ripon. Gerald would never find her there. But he was just stupid enough to come back here and the idea petrified her.

The world’s a jungle, she said, shivering in a huddle before the dying fire. And I’m still vulnerable to the animals in it. I do not have enough money yet with which to build a wall around Edwina and myself. We are painfully exposed. I need protection. She thought then of David with longing and despair. What she needed was a husband. That was most palpably obvious to her now. But David, her darling David, was forbidden to her. As much as they loved each other the objections of his family would drive a wedge between them. Her mind raced. Where could she find a husband who would protect her and Edwina? Whom could she marry? It came to her in a flash. Joe Lowther! She knew he loved her. The problem was, she did not love Joe. She liked him. How could she not? He was decent and kind and dependable. If she married Joe she would be cheating him of that most important of all things in a marriage-love. She also had to face the fact that she would have to share his bed, submit to his sexual advances, and bear his children. She went cold at this prospect. How could she willingly give herself to another man when David filled her heart and her soul? And yet she had no alternative. Emma began to weep, her sobs reverberating in the stillness of the little parlour.

‘Forgive me, David,’ she cried. ‘Forgive me for what I’m about to do, my darling.’

The boardroom of the Yorkshire Morning Gazette , oak-panelled walls hung with antique engravings of renowned English authors, mahogany furniture polished to a ferocious glassy sheen, was smoke-filled and vibrating with tension. Adam Fairley and Lord Jocelyn Sydney sat opposite each other on either side of the immense conference table, their faces morose, their eyes grave as they chain-smoked in brooding silence, the crystal ashtrays in front of them littered with stubbed-out butts that bespoke hours of waiting and strain.

Adam, impeccably tailored in a dark blue suit, shifted restlessly in the black leather chair and ran his hand through his silver-streaked fair hair. His mouth, ringed with fatigue, suddenly tightened and his grey-blue eyes fixedly regarded the clock ticking with relentless precision in the leaden stillness.

‘Damn it all!’ he exclaimed, no longer able to control his temper. He swung to face Jocelyn. ‘It’s almost one o’clock. If Parker doesn’t hurry up we’ll miss the first edition. He’s been fiddling with that lead story for a good twenty minutes. What on earth can the fool be doing, for Christ’s sake!’

Jocelyn peered at Adam through the smoke. ‘Pondering every word, shouldn’t doubt! You ought to know that by now, old boy.’

‘I’ll give Parker five more minutes and then I’m going up to see him-’ Adam broke off as a copy boy burst in. The heavy oak door swung back on its hinges and the activity and noise of a newspaper in the heat of production rolled into the quiet boardroom.

‘Here’s the proof of the front page, sir. And the editor says ter tell yer he’s starting the presses in five minutes.’ The boy slapped the damp newsprint dripping with wet ink on to the table in front of Adam and disappeared. The door banged behind him and silence was fully restored. Jocelyn hurried across the room. Placing one hand on Adam’s broad shoulder, he bent down and looked at the proof. The banner headline, set in giant-sized type, was black and stark and it leapt across the page.

BRITAIN DECLARES WAR ON GERMANY

Two pairs of eyes quickly scanned the smaller crossheads on the broadsheet: The Great Conflict Begun. British Minelayer Sunk. Belgium Invaded. Two New Battleships for Our Navy. Government Takes Control of Railways. Securing Food Supply. State Guarantee War Risk at Sea.

Jocelyn tapped the lead story with one finger. ‘How has Parker handled this, Adam? In my haste to get here tonight I forgot my spectacles and I can’t read the small print.’

Adam read the proof quickly and said, ‘I think Parker covered everything of importance.’ He looked up at Jocelyn. ‘I’ve dreaded and feared this war for years. But we’re in the conflict now and there’s no turning back.’

Jocelyn fixed Adam with a glassy stare. ‘Did you really mean what you said earlier this evening-that it will be a prolonged war?’

‘Indeed I did,’ said Adam tersely. ‘Contrary to what some of the experts in London are saying, I believe it will last several years. Two at least.’

Jocelyn’s jaw sagged. ‘As long as that!’

Adam nodded, his face grim. ‘Yes. And it will be a war of attrition. A bloody holocaust the likes of which the world has never seen. Mark my words, Jocelyn.’

‘Oh God, Adam, I pray you are wrong! I sincerely do!’

Adam did not answer. He lit a cigarette and gazed reflectively into space, envisioning the terrible consequences of Britain’s entry into the war.

‘We both need a stiff drink,’ Jocelyn announced after a few moments. He hurried to the sideboard and his hands trembled as he prepared two brandy-and-sodas and carried them to the table. He handed one to Adam and sat down heavily in the next chair. Neither man bothered to toast the other on this sombre occasion, and they sipped their drinks in silence, preoccupied with their own thoughts.

Adam Fairley, newly appointed chairman of the board of the Yorkshire Morning Gazette, had kept up a tireless vigil at the newspaper for the past four days, sifting through the stories pouring in from the London office and Reuters, studying the grave news, watching Britain being inexorably drawn into the European crisis. His old friend Jocelyn Sydney had been a constant visitor, prowling up and down the boardroom yet insisting that as long as peace lasted the folly of war could be avoided. Adam had met Jocelyn’s inherent optimism with an absolute pessimism that reflected his clarity of vision and an understanding of the facts, pronouncing that it was far too late to avert onrushing disaster.