Barbara Bradford - A Woman of Substance

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 nodded. ‘Fine, Frank.’ He picked up one of the telephones, which was ringing loudly. ‘Christiansen here. Good evening, sir.’ He covered the mouthpiece and said to Frank, ‘It’s Lord Beaverbrook calling from Cherkley. Excuse me, Frank.’

Frank collected his hat from his office and strolled through the newsroom, as always lingering there for a moment. The bustle and activity had reached fever pitch as the deadline for the first edition of Monday’s paper approached and the noise was deafening. There was a sense of immediacy in the atmosphere, and the air was pungent with the smell of damp newsprint and wet ink from the page proofs, which always sent a thrill of excitement coursing through Frank’s veins. Popular and successful novelist though he had become over the years, he could no more abandon journalism than he could stop breathing. It was in his blood. And there was no other place quite like the offices of a daily newspaper at this hour, just before the giant presses rolled. It was the pulse, the very heartbeat of the world.

Frank paused at the Reuters wire machine and glanced with quickening interest at the stories coming in. The news was ominous, presaging war. A copy boy dodged past him, tore off the latest Reuters dispatches, and raced away. As he did, Frank’s eye caught a new story coming over the wire. His attention was riveted on it. He was motionless for a long time, reeling from the shock, and disbelieving, and then he roused himself and moved up to the Associated Press machine. After a moment he went to look at the United Press ticker. All the wire services were carrying the identical story and he groaned. There was undoubtedly no mistake. No mistake at all. He tore off the UP story and had a word with the chief sub about it, who acquiesced when Frank asked to take it with him. Pushing the piece of paper in his pocket, Frank walked out of the newsroom, benumbed and sick at heart.

Within seconds he was in the street and hailing a cab. Despite the muggy August weather, he shivered and his hands were unsteady as he lit a cigarette. He wondered how in God’s name he was going to find the strength to do what he must do.

Winston was in London on business and he was staying with Emma, as he always did. They were seated in the drawing room, drinking their after-dinner coffee, when the housekeeper showed Frank in a few minutes later.

Emma’s face lit up when she saw him, and she rose to embrace him. ‘We’d just about given you up!’ she exclaimed, hugging him.

‘I’m sorry I’m so late,’ Frank murmured.

Emma said, ‘Let me get you a drink. What would you like, Frank?’

‘A brandy, please, Emma.’ He turned to Winston. ‘How long are you staying?’

‘A few days. Do you want to have lunch tomorrow?’

‘Yes, I do.’

Emma handed Frank the drink and sat down in the chair opposite. She looked at him intently and then frowned. ‘You look awfully pale, Frank dear. You’re not sickening with something, are you?’

‘No, I’m just tired.’ He tossed down the brandy and stood up. ‘Mind if I have another? I need it tonight.’

‘Of course not.’ Emma’s eyes swivelled to Winston and one brow shot up quizzically.

Winston noticed his brother’s weary stance. ‘Are you sure you’re not ill, Frank? Emma’s quite right, you don’t seem to be your usual self.’

Frank swung around and managed a smile. ‘I suppose the situation is getting on top of me,’ he muttered, and returned to the chair. ‘The Nazis are about to move into Poland. We’re all convinced of that.’

Winston and Emma plied him with questions, and Frank responded automatically, attempting to sound coherent. Emma had been listening thoughtfully and she turned to face Winston, who was fixing himself a scotch and soda, and she said, ‘I expect we ought to start thinking about our various staffs. They will be badly depleted when the men get called up.’ She caught her breath and her hand flew to her throat nervously to finger her pearls. ‘And my God! What about the boys! Kit and Robin are bound to go. And Randolph, Winston. He’s also of age.’

‘Yes, he is. In fact, he wants to join the navy. Immediately. ’ Winston’s mouth tightened. ‘He’s determined to do it. I won’t be able to stop him.’

Emma gave her older brother an anxious glance. His only son was the apple of his eye. ‘Randolph’s headstrong, I realize that, and so are my boys. They’re not going to listen to us. I don’t suppose there is anything we can do. They will ultimately get their papers.’ She now addressed Frank. ‘Well, at least your Simon is not old enough to be called up.’

‘For the moment,’ Frank said, and rose. He poured a large brandy and brought it to Emma. ‘You had better drink this. I think you are going to need it.’

Emma regarded him with puzzlement. ‘Why do you say that?’ She frowned. ‘And you know I don’t like brandy. It gives me heart palpitations.’

‘Please drink it,’ Frank said quietly.

Emma brought the brandy balloon up to her mouth and took a drop of it, wrinkling her nose with distaste. She put the glass down on the butler’s tray table in front of her, and focused her attention on Frank. Once more she noted his extraordinary pallor. And when she saw the apprehension, now so clearly etched on his sensitive face, it alarmed her. A dreadful feeling of impending disaster struck Emma and she clasped her hands tightly together in her lap. ‘Something’s terribly wrong, isn’t it, Frank?’

Frank felt a dryness in his mouth and his voice was hoarse as he finally said, ‘I’ve had some very bad news. Just now, before I left the office.’ Despite the iron control he was exercising, his voice shook badly.

‘Frank dear, whatever is it?’ asked Emma, every one of her instincts alerted for trouble.

Winston said rapidly, ‘There’s nothing wrong at the paper, is there?’

‘No,’ Frank responded in a low voice. ‘It’s…it’s about Paul, actually.’

‘Paul! You’ve had bad news about Paul! What’s wrong with him?’ Emma demanded.

‘I don’t know how to tell you this, Emma-’ Frank stopped. After an awful moment of silence he finished in a faltering voice, ‘He’s-he’s-he’s passed away.’

Emma stared at her brother with stunned disbelief, and she shook her head in bewilderment. ‘What do you mean?’ she asked, unable to digest his words. ‘I don’t understand what you are saying. I just had a letter from him. Yesterday. What are you saying to me?’ She had turned so deathly pale she looked as if she was going to faint and she was shaking.

Frank went to kneel at her feet. He looked up at her gravely and took her hand in his. He said with great gentleness, ‘Paul’s dead, Emma. The story came over the wires when I was on my way here.’

‘Paul,’ Emma whispered incredulously, and her expression was one of blank stupefaction mingled with fear. She cried in a tremulous voice, ‘Are you sure there is no mistake? There must be a mistake!’

Frank shook his head dismally. ‘All the wire services are carrying the same story. I checked them out.’

‘Oh my God,’ Emma groaned, her blood turning cold.

Winston, as grey as a ghost, managed, ‘How did Paul die, Frank?’

Frank gazed at Emma, bleakness washing over his face as he sought the appropriate words. But nothing would soften the blow. Frank found himself incapable of speech.

Now Emma tightened her grip, her fingers biting into his hand. ‘Did Paul-? Was it his injuries? Were they more serious than he told me?’ She sounded weak.

‘Well, yes, I believe they were much worse than he led you to understand-’