Barbara Bradford - A Woman of Substance

The trilling of the doorbell startled them all, and Emma’s eyes widened with apprehension and appealed to Winston. He nodded and pulled himself up out of the chair. As he left the drawing room he prayed it wasn’t the press wanting a statement. To Winston’s relief the housekeeper was admitting Henry Rossiter, a partner in the private merchant bank which handled all of Paul’s business in England, and much of Emma’s as well. Henry’s face was as dolorous as Winston’s. He shook Winston’s hand and asked, ‘Does she know?’ Winston inclined his head. ‘How is she taking it?’ Henry murmured.

Winston said, ‘She’s stunned. It hasn’t really sunk in yet. There will be a horrible delayed reaction, of course, Henry. I dread to contemplate it.’

Henry nodded his understanding. ‘Yes. They were so close. What a tragic, tragic thing to happen. How did Emma hear about it?’

Winston quickly explained and motioned to the drawing room. ‘We’d better go in, Henry. She needs us.’

Henry entered the living room and sat down next to Emma. ‘I’m sorry. So very sorry, my dear. I got here as quickly as I could. As soon as I knew.’

Emma’s throat worked and she passed her hand over her throbbing head. She said, ‘Did someone in Sydney contact you, Henry?’

‘Yes, Mel Harrison. He has been trying to get me all day. I was in the country, unfortunately.’

‘Why didn’t he attempt to reach me?’ she asked in a voice echoing with sorrow.

‘He wanted me to break the news to you in person, Emma. He didn’t want you to be alone when you heard-’

‘When did Paul die?’ she interrupted, her heart squeezing.

‘His body was found on Sunday night. It’s early Monday morning there now. Mel put in a call to me as soon as he arrived at the house. He realized he couldn’t hold off the press indefinitely, since the police have to-’

‘Police!’ Emma exclaimed. ‘What do you mean? Why were the police there?’

Henry looked at Frank with dismay. They exchanged worried glances and both men were silent. Frank now contemplated lying to Emma, but there was no point in dissembling. Better to get it over with. He said gently, ‘Paul took his own life, Emma.’

‘Oh my God! No! No! It’s not true! I don’t believe you! Paul wouldn’t do that. Never,’ Emma cried.

‘I’m afraid it’s true, darling,’ Frank said, and put his arm around her.

Emma moved her head wildly from side to side, denying Frank. She seemed to shrink in the chair. ‘How did he-’ She could not continue.

Frank bit his lip. ‘He-he shot himself.’ He did not add that Paul shot himself through the heart. He could not bring himself to tell her that.

‘No!’ she shrieked, losing control. ‘ It’s not true! ’ she gasped. A tearing sob strangled in her throat and she twisted her hands agitatedly. Her eyes, brimming with shock, focused on Henry.

He nodded sadly. ‘It is true, Emma.’

‘It’s not! It’s not!’ she cried, her voice rising. ‘Oh my God! Paul! Paul! Oh, my darling. Why?’ Her voice broke and tears welled in her eyes. She pushed Frank aside and stood up, moving to the centre of the room. She stretched out her arms, clutching blindly at the empty air, as if seeking Paul, to hold him to her.

Frank sprang up and took her arm, leading her back to the sofa. ‘Sit down, Emma. Please, darling.’

Winston rose unsteadily and walked across the room, anxiety dulling his eyes, and he wondered desperately where she was going to find the strength to bear this tragedy. He picked up the glass of brandy. ‘Drink this, our Emma. Drink it, love. We’re here. We’ll stay with you.’

She took the glass from him with both hands, which were trembling, and she gulped it down quickly. ‘I must know everything. Please, Frank, you must tell me everything. I must know it all. For my own sanity.’

Frank was alarmed. ‘I have the UP story with me, Emma, but I don’t think I should-’

‘Yes, you should. You must. I beg of you.’

‘I think you had better give Emma the facts, Frank,’ Winston interceded, adopting a calmness he did not feel. ‘She won’t rest until she knows all the details. However painful they are to hear, you must tell her.’

Frank nodded and pulled the piece of paper out. In a slow, saddened voice he read:

‘Paul McGill, Australia’s most renowned industrialist, was found shot to death on Sunday night at his home in Sydney. Mr McGill, who was fifty-nine years old, was in a serious automobile accident four months ago, which paralysed him from the waist downward. One side of his face was also badly shattered. Mr McGill had been confined to a wheelchair since his release from the hospital and his doctors believe he took his own life in a moment of acute depression, undoubtedly caused by his condition. No note was found. Mr McGill, who had resided mostly in London for the past sixteen years, was the only son of Bruce McGill and the grandson of Andrew McGill, founding father of the famous Australian family, one of the wealthiest and most influential in the country. It was Andrew McGill, a Scottish sea captain, who began the family sheep station, Dunoon, in Coonamble, in 1852. One of the biggest and most prosperous in New South Wales, the sheep station was inherited by Paul McGill upon his father’s death in 1919. Mr McGill, believed to be one of the richest men in the world, was chairman of the board of numerous Australian companies, including the McGill Corporation, which operated the sheep station, McGill and Smythson Real Estate, the McGill Mining Corporation, and the McGill Coal Company. He was also chairman of the board of the Sitex Oil Corporation of America, headquartered in Texas, and president and chief executive officer of McGill-Marriott Maritime, which owns and operates one of the world’s largest oil-tanker fleets.’

Frank stopped. ‘There’s a lot more about the business, the family, Paul’s war record, and his education. Do you want to go on, Emma?’

‘No,’ she whispered. She turned to Henry miserably. ‘Why didn’t he tell me about the paralysis? His face? I would have gone to him immediately. He should have told me, Henry.’ Tears seeped out of the corners of her eyes and trickled silently down her cheeks. ‘Did he think his condition would have made any difference to me? And I should have been with him.’ She began to sob brokenly. ‘I loved him.’

Henry’s voice was sympathetic. ‘Mel wanted him to send for you. But you know how stubborn and proud Paul was. He was adamant, it seems. According to Mel, he didn’t want you to see him that way, or know the seriousness of his injuries, or to be burdened with him.’

Emma was speechless. Not to be burdened with him, she thought. But I loved him more than life itself. Oh, Paul, why did you keep me away from you when you needed me the most? She envisaged Paul’s pain and the terrible despair which had prompted his action, and an overwhelming sorrow engulfed her.

It seemed to Emma that the whole world had abruptly stopped. There was no sound in the room, except for the faint ticking of the carriage clock on the mantelshelf. She looked down at the great McGill emerald glittering on her finger, and at the wedding ring Paul had given her when Daisy was born, and her unchecked tears fell on her hands and splashed against the rings. And she remembered the words he had spoken that day: ‘Until death do us part,’ he had said. Her heart twisted inside her. She lifted her head and glanced about, and a terrible aching numbness entered her body. She felt as though she, too, was paralysed and would be quite unable to move ever again. The pain was beginning, and she understood with a flash of clarity that she would never be free of it. She thought: I cannot live without him. He was my life. There is nothing left now. Only the empty years ahead to endure until I, too, die.