Barbara Bradford - A Woman of Substance

‘Do you think they are happy, Adam?’

‘I’m damned if I know. Why do you ask?’ It struck him then that perhaps Olivia had also noticed the curious lack of warmth between his son and daughter-in-law.

‘I can’t really put my finger on it,’ Olivia said thoughtfully. ‘There’s a distance between them. Oh, Edwin is outwardly charming and most considerate. But not very affectionate. They don’t seem like a couple to me. And sometimes I have noticed the most awful empty look in Edwin’s eyes.’ Olivia paused and stared at Adam. When he made no response, she pressed, ‘Haven’t you noticed it, darling?’

Wary though he was of embarking on this discussion, Adam admitted, ‘Well, yes, I have, to be truthful. If there is anything wrong there it’s definitely to do with Edwin. He’s changed radically in the past few years. He devotes twenty-four hours a day to the law, or so it seems to me. He has no other interests and appears to be determined to become the most outstanding young barrister in England before he’s reached thirty. And I feel he neglects Jane frightfully.’

‘Yes, he does,’ Olivia agreed.

‘And yet he has every reason to be happy with her. Jane is charming and pretty and comports herself in the most mature and dignified manner. Pity they haven’t had a child. I must say, I was rather looking forward to having a grandchild. Expected one by now. After all, they’ve been married three years.’

Olivia stared into the fire and after a long moment turned to Adam. ‘Did you believe that nasty story Gerald told you a few years ago? The story about Edwin and Emma Harte?’

‘Certainly not!’ Adam exclaimed, wishing he meant his words. Intensely protective of Olivia, he did not wish to upset her tonight by dragging out old skeletons. And so for once in his life he lied to her. ‘Gerald has no regard for the truth. His story was not only preposterous but quite unfounded. It was undoubtedly engendered by his desire to denigrate Edwin in my eyes. You know Gerald has always been inordinately jealous of his brother.’

Olivia was not entirely placated. ‘I remember you made discreet inquiries at the time, about Emma and the child, but are you sure your information was correct, Adam?’

‘Of course I am!’ He put down the brandy balloon and took Olivia’s hand. ‘Now, why are you suddenly worrying about that old story? It’s long forgotten.’

‘I really don’t know, darling. I suppose because we began to talk about Edwin’s marriage and his happiness. If you say the story is not true, then Edwin can’t have anything on his conscience.’ Her eyes roved over Adam’s face searchingly. ‘And yet it has often crossed my mind that he does. Perhaps it’s the peculiar look in his eyes that troubles me, Adam.’

Adam frowned. ‘Now, come, my darling,’ he said softly. ‘You are being imaginative. Gerald told a pack of lies. I’m absolutely convinced of that. As for that look in Edwin’s eyes, well, maybe it simply springs from his disappointment in his marriage. You should know as well as I do that not all marriages are as happy as ours.’

‘Yes, that’s true,’ she murmured, and sighed. ‘Poor Edwin. How terrible for him if he does not love Jane. It must be painful for her, too.’

Adam wanted to terminate the discussion and so he said firmly, ‘It’s very late, my darling. Let us go up to bed.’

As they left the library Adam acknowledged to himself that the state of Edwin’s marriage did not particularly concern him at this precise moment. His consuming worry was that Edwin would volunteer for the army, for Adam knew that the boy no longer put much store in personal safety. Tragically, that most human of all instincts had died in Edwin the day Jack Harte had died. Adam believed that his younger son did not care whether he lived or not, and this attitude, coupled with his strong sense of patriotic duty, would propel Edwin into military service.

Emma clutched the telephone tighter, and her heart began to beat more rapidly than usual. ‘I don’t want you to do this, Frank! You’re putting yourself in danger needlessly. It’s foolish and-’

‘No, it’s not,’ Frank interrupted, his voice echoing hollowly over the long-distance wire. ‘Look, Emma, I’d even toyed with the idea of joining up, but I know the army would never take me. Not with my poor eyesight and weak chest. But somebody’s got to report the war over there. I must go, Emma.’

‘But not you , Frank. You’re only a boy!’ Emma cried heatedly.

‘No, I’m not. I’ll be twenty-three next month.’ His tone became intense. ‘I want to go. Please try to understand, Emma. Also, the editor wants me to go. In a way, it’s a kind of honour.’

‘An honour!’ she gasped incredulously. ‘Well, in my opinion it’s an honour you can easily do without! You’ll be in the trenches. In the thick of the fighting. The conditions will be terrible, and you said yourself you’re not strong physically. Please, Frank, reconsider this. Think more carefully before you make a final decision!’ Emma implored.

‘I’ve already made up my mind,’ her brother said firmly. ‘Anyway, it’s too late. That’s why I’m ringing you now. I’m leaving for the front at five this morning.’

‘Oh, Frank! I wish you hadn’t done this without talking to me first,’ she remonstrated.

‘I’ll be fine, Emma. Honestly, I will. Don’t make it harder for me,’ he pleaded. ‘Now, take care of yourself and give my love to everyone. I’ll be in touch, when and if I can. You’ll know where I am from my dispatches in the Chronicle. Keep them for me, Emma, and try not to worry about me. Goodbye, love.’

‘Oh, Frank! Frankie!’ Her voice broke and she had to swallow hard to regain her control. ‘Goodbye, Frank. And take a raincoat and strong boots-’ She stopped, unable to continue.

‘I will. Bye.’

The telephone went dead. Her mind froze at the idea of Frank hurtling across the battlefields of Flanders. This development was the last thing she had anticipated and she was stunned by her brother’s news, and afraid for him. It was bad enough that Winston was somewhere with the Battle Fleet without Frank flinging himself into the fray. For the past few weeks she had consistently reassured herself that if England did go to war at least her younger brother was in no danger because of his frail constitution. And that would have been so if he had not made such a name for himself as a journalist. Frank, already a rising star in the newspaper firmament, was the type of young reporter editors sought out. He had an enormous command of the English language, was incisive and perceptive, a master of the descriptive phrase and matchless at capturing mood and atmosphere. Not only that, by nature he was romantic, adventurous, and oblivious to danger. She might have guessed he would want to be a war correspondent and now, as she reflected, she realized he had actually sounded excited about going.

Suddenly and quite irrationally, Emma wished that Frank was not so talented and then he would have been a failure. And safe. Indirectly perhaps it was all her fault, and if Frank was killed she would never forgive herself. I should have left him where he was-working on that nothing of a weekly newspaper in Shipley, where he would have stagnated, she said to herself angrily. But I had to go and interfere, because I was impressed with his ability, and ambitious for him. Too ambitious by far, she decided. She chided herself, but after a moment her natural pragmatism rose to the surface, as it generally did, for at twenty-five Emma was nothing if not practical, a characteristic that had been magnified in her over the years. You’re being ridiculous, she told herself firmly, recognizing that Frank would have been just as successful without her help. His kind of incandescent talent could never be held back for long; furthermore, he had always been perfectly sure of his own destiny. She had merely propelled him to the top a little faster and that was all. Her role had been of minor importance. She had simply engineered a job for him as a junior reporter on the Leeds Mercury , through her friendship with the assistant editor, Archie Clegg. There had been no holding Frank back after that. He had risen with meteoric swiftness, astonishing her as much as Archie and his colleagues. Of course, there was the matter of the book. If she was honest with herself, she had to admit that she had been instrumental in bringing it to the attention of the right people. But if she had not, Frank would have done so himself eventually. When he was twenty he had shown her a novel he had been working on for two years, shyly requesting that she read it and mumbling that it was ‘not very good, really’.