A Woman of Substance by Barbara Taylor Bradford
The doorbell rang, echoing through the silent house. It brought Emma up with a start and pulled her away from her contemplation of the Fairleys. She rose and went into the hall, her silk dress swishing as she moved with her usual rapidity. She opened the front door, wondering who could be calling at this hour, to be confronted by a telegraph boy.
‘Evening, missis,’ he said, deferentially touching his cap. He handed her the telegram, touched his cap again, and ran down the steps. Emma closed the door and glanced at the yellow envelope. It was undoubtedly from Winston, announcing his arrival.
Emma glided into the centre of the hall and stood under the crystal chandelier where the light was brighter and ripped it open. Her eyes travelled quickly across the top line and they widened and widened, and the smile on her face faded as she read:
‘It is with deep regret and the greatest sympathy that the War Office must inform you that your husband Private Joseph Daniel Lowther of the 1st Battalion of the Seaforth Highlanders was killed in action on July 14 in France…’
The remaining words blurred and ran together and, recoiling, Emma sat down on the hall chair with a thud, stunned and for a moment disbelieving. She stared blankly at the opposite wall, the light in her eyes dulled, her mouth trembling. Eventually she brought her reluctant gaze back to the telegram crumpled in a ball between her clenched fingers. She straightened it out and read it again. The devastating words slowly sank in and her heart plunged.
It can’t be true! There has been a mistake! A ghastly error! Emma cried inwardly, moving her head from side to side, denying the words. Joe could not be dead. Her throat thickened as reality struck at her, and she sat frozen in the chair, as rigid as stone, held in the grips of the most paralysing shock.
After what seemed like an eternity to Emma she pushed herself up out of the chair, forcing her shaking legs to move forward, blindly making her way to the stairs. She held on to the banister to steady herself, a sensation of fainting weakness trickling through her entire body. She manoeuvred herself up the staircase, dragging one leaden foot after the other, moving with laborious care like an old woman crippled by arthritic pain. She stumbled into her bedroom, collapsed on to the bed, and lay motionless, staring at the ceiling in a trance-like state, her eyes dark pools of sorrow.
Poor Joe. Poor Joe. Struck down after only a brief few weeks at the front. He was too young to die. It was unfair. Unfair. Emma began to weep, the tears streaming down her face unchecked. She would never see Joe again. The children would never see him again. Her mind floundered at the thought of Kit and Edwina sleeping so peacefully in their beds. She could not tell them the news. Not now. Tomorrow would be soon enough.
Her anguished mind began to race. How had Joe died? And where was his body? She wanted Joe’s body. Irrational as the idea was under the present circumstances, she wanted to give him a proper burial. The thought of Joe’s body lying smashed and neglected somewhere in France haunted her. It was a horrendous image that wobbled in the very centre of her brain.
Emma lay in the bedroom, unaware of the hour, watching the night descend, abandoned and lonely in her misery. And she grieved inconsolably for Joe. He had been honourable, and kind in an infinite number of ways, and now she dismissed all the traits that had irritated her, forgot the revulsion she had experienced in their marital bed. She carefully obliterated everything that had been distressing, remembered only the good and the best.
And she wept all night for the loss of a decent man, for all that he had been and had represented, and for the life they had shared together.
It was a glorious Sunday afternoon in late October, one of those unexpected Indian-summer days, radiant with crystalline light that flooded the periwinkle-blue sky. The garden was bathed in a golden haze and the trees and the shrubs were already turning colour, the autumnal foliage a glowing mixture of yellows and orange running to scarlet and burnt sienna.
Laura O’Neill sat on the garden seat lost in contemplation. Her thoughts as always were with Blackie in France. She had not received a letter for several weeks. On the other hand, that dreaded telegram had not arrived either. Despite the lack of news of any sort, Laura held the deep conviction that Blackie was safe and would continue to be safe and that he would come home to her when the war was over. Her unwavering faith in Almighty God was the rock upon which her life was built, and she knew with absolute certainty that Blackie was under His divine protection. Laura, always devout, now went every day to mass, disregarding Emma’s advice that she stay in bed and rest. She lit innumerable candles for Blackie and Winston and for all of the other fighting men. And her gentle heart overflowed with grief for those who had lost sons and husbands and sweethearts, and most especially for Emma, widowed four months before.
Emma was working at the other end of the garden, filling a basket with magnificent gold and copper winter chrysanthemums. Laura’s hazel eyes rested on her dearest friend and her heart tightened with love and sympathy. She’s painfully thin, Laura thought. And she’s exhausted. She works like a Trojan and her responsibilities would crush anyone else. Even the strongest and most determined of men would stagger under the burden.
It seemed to Laura that Emma had been imbued with an almost inhuman strength since Joe’s death. She not only ran her own businesses and managed Joe’s properties as well, but played a major administrative role at the Kallinski factories. Yet withal she still found time to devote hours to the children, trying to surround them with love and security. That is Emma’s way of coping with her sorrow, Laura decided. The only way she knows how to go on. Her work and the children have become her citadel.
Laura sighed deeply. Death was never final. The person loved was gone but there were always the others, the ones left behind to mourn. The sadness of life is ever present, Laura thought, and yet there is joy in life, too. Joy like the child she was carrying. The child she yearned to give Blackie. She placed her hands across her stomach protectively and with love, and she thanked God she had not miscarried this time. Yes, there was death, but there was also birth. A continual renewal…the endless cycle that was eternal, that was man’s inexorable fate.
Emma having completed her tasks, pulled off her gardening gloves and joined Laura on the seat. ‘You’re not feeling chilly, are you?’ she asked. ‘I think we ought to go in shortly. I don’t want you to catch a cold. Not now when you’ve been so well.’ Emma eyed Laura lovingly. ‘You only have two more months to wait and then you’ll be presenting Blackie with that son and heir.’
Laura nodded, her happiness overflowing in her eyes. ‘This pregnancy has been so easy, Emma. A miracle. I offer thanks for that every day.’
‘So do I, love.’
Laura took Emma’s hand in hers and said softly, ‘I haven’t wanted to upset you by bringing it up before, but is Edwina any better?’
‘A little.’ Emma’s voice was low. ‘If only she would cry then perhaps her grief for Joe would be alleviated. As it is, it’s all pent up and her self-control frightens me. It’s not natural.’
A look of sympathy crossed Laura’s face. ‘No, it’s not healthy to repress that kind of anguish and pain. Poor Edwina, she did adore Joe so much.’
‘I’ve talked to her for hours, tried to give her comfort and understanding, without much success. It’s as if she wants to bear it alone. Stoically. I don’t know what to do anymore—’ Emma stopped. After a moment she added in a dim voice, ‘Sometimes I think I misjudged Joe.’
‘What do you mean?’ Laura asked in puzzlement.
‘Well, now when I look back, I realize how kind he was, and so generous in a variety of ways. His will, for instance. I was thunderstruck when Mr Ainsley read it to me and I learned Joe had left all the properties to me. I expected him to make Kit the sole beneficiary, willing him the business and everything. I haven’t been able to get over that gesture. After all, Kit is the only son.’
‘Joe left all of his money to Kit, dear,’ Laura cut in swiftly. ‘Except for the annuity for Edwina. Look, Emma,
‘I suppose so. But I still feel I did Joe many injustices when he was alive.’
Laura squeezed Emma’s arm affectionately. ‘You were a good wife. Don’t start chastising yourself now for things that happened in the past. And don’t forget, human relationships are never static. They change from day to day, because they are highly complex and also because people are changeable. And life intrudes. Problems intrude and create tensions. You gave Joe a great deal, even if you did have disagreements occasionally. I know you made him happy. Please, Emma, you must believe that.’
‘I hope I did,’ Emma murmured.
Noting the sad echo in Emma’s voice and wishing to distract her, Laura said briskly, ‘Shall we go in, dear? I’m getting cold and I would like some tea.’ As she spoke she stood up, pulling the yellow shawl closer around her shoulders.
Emma took Laura’s arm as they walked across the lawn. ‘What would I do without you, my sweet Laura? You’re so wise, and you always make me feel better.’
‘I can say the same thing about you, Emma. Why, you’re the best friend I ever had.’
FORTY-THREE
‘Ah, there you are, Mrs Lowther,’ Dr Stalkley said, hurrying through the swinging doors of the waiting room. ‘Mrs O’Neill has been asking for you.’
Emma stood up, clutching her handbag tightly. ‘Please,’ she said anxiously, ‘is everything all right? I don’t understand what happened so suddenly.’
The doctor gave her an avuncular pat on the shoulder. ‘It was a question of operating or going through with the natural childbirth. Because of her religion, Mrs O’Neill was quite adamant about the operation—’
‘What do you mean? I’m not following you, Doctor,’ Emma interrupted peremptorily.
‘Mrs O’Neill would not permit us to operate because there was the possibility—in fact, the great probability—that she would have lost the child. The operation would have been wiser, safer, of course. However, she would not take any chances with the child’s life.’
‘But is she all right?’ Emma demanded.
‘Weak,’ the doctor responded quietly, avoiding Emma’s eyes.
‘And the baby?’
‘A fine boy, Mrs Lowther.’
Emma’s stare became more penetrating. ‘Mrs O’Neill isn’t in any danger, is she?’
‘She’s tired, naturally. It was a difficult birth,’ the doctor said. ‘But let’s not stand here chattering. She’s waiting to see you. Please come this way.’
Emma followed him down the corridor, her mind racing as she tried to assess the gravity of the situation. Instinct told her Dr Stalkley was hedging and this frightened her. When they reached the door of Laura’s room the doctor paused and turned to Emma. His face was unreadable as he said, ‘We’ve sent for the priest.’
‘Priest! Why?’
‘Mrs O’Neill asked for him.’ The doctor shook his head. ‘She is very weak. Worn out. Please don’t excite her.’
Emma clutched his arm. ‘She’s not—’
The doctor opened the door for her. ‘Please, Mrs Lowther, let’s not waste time.’ He ushered her in and closed the door softly behind him.
Emma hurried to the bed, her eyes sweeping over Laura, who lay propped against the pillows. She was at once aware of Laura’s terrible exhaustion. Her lovely face, so wan in the cold light, was etched with lines of extreme fatigue and there were dark smudges under her huge eyes, which lit up at the sight of her friend. Emma’s heart sank, for she recognized all the distressing telltale signs, but the smile on her face did not falter for an instant. She bent over Laura and kissed her cheek. Smoothing back the honey-blonde hair that tumbled over the pillows, she said softly, ‘How are you feeling, darling?’
Laura smiled. ‘So happy. And grateful. It’s a boy, Emma.’
Emma sat down on the chair next to the bed. Swallowing hard, she adopted her most cheerful tone. ‘Yes, it’s wonderful. Blackie will be thrilled.’
Laura nodded, her eyes shining. She reached for Emma’s small hand, took it in hers, and squeezed it. ‘Have you been waiting long, dear?’
‘No,’ Emma lied. ‘And you mustn’t worry about me. You’re the one who needs all the care and attention now. I expect you’ll be discharged in a week and then you’re coming to stay with me and the children. I’m going to look after you like you looked after me when Edwina was born. You will come, won’t you, darling?’
A faint smile flickered on Laura’s white lips. She said, ‘I want him to be called Bryan.’
‘That’s a lovely name, Laura.’
‘And Shane Patrick, after Blackie and Uncle Pat.’
‘They will be pleased, love.’
‘Come closer to me, Emma,’ Laura murmured, ‘so that I can see you better. The light seems to have dimmed, doesn’t it?’
‘Yes, it is getting dark outside,’ Emma said, even though the light was still very bright.
Laura’s fine eyes searched her face. ‘I want Bryan to be brought up as a good Roman Catholic. You know what Blackie is like. So careless about some things. You’ll see to it for me, Emma, won’t you?’
Emma’s fear flared again. ‘What do you mean?’
‘I want you to promise me that you’ll make sure Uncle Pat does the right thing while Blackie is away, and that you’ll take care of Bryan for me until his father comes back from the war.’
‘But you’ll be doing that, love.’
Laura’s brilliant eyes remained unwavering. ‘I’m dying, Emma.’
‘Don’t say that!’
‘Emma, listen to me. Please listen. I have so little time left,’ Laura whispered, her faint voice now vibrating with urgency. ‘Promise me that you’ll make certain Uncle Pat has Bryan christened in the Roman Catholic Church and that he attends to his religious training as long as Blackie is gone. And promise you’ll look after Blackie for me.’
Emma was unable to speak for a moment. ‘I promise,’ she finally said, her voice thick with emotion and quavering.
Laura lifted her hand weakly and touched Emma’s face. She smiled at her. ‘I love you, Emma.’
‘Oh, Laura, I love you, too.’ Emma could no longer suppress the tears and they spilled down her cheeks and splashed on to Laura’s hand.
‘Don’t cry, dear. There’s nothing to cry about.’
‘Oh, Laura—Laura—’
‘Hush, darling. Don’t cry.’
Emma took a deep breath and endeavoured to pull herself together. ‘Laura, listen to me now. You must fight. Try harder, love. Please fight to live,’ she implored with great intensity. She gathered Laura’s frail body into her strong arms and cradled her close, pressing Laura harder against herself, as if trying to infuse her dying friend with some of her own enormous strength, her own stubborn will, as she had done so long ago with her mother.
A small sigh escaped Laura’s lips, a soft fluttering sigh that was hardly audible. ‘It’s too late,’ she said in a fading voice.
Emma placed her back on the pillows, her lips shaking, her face white and strained. ‘Please try, love. Try for Blackie. For the baby. For me.’
There was a rustling noise as the priest came in carrying a black bag. He touched Emma on the shoulder lightly. ‘She must receive Extreme Unction, Mrs Lowther,’ he said.
Emma stood up and moved away with a degree of self-containment, although her knees were buckling. Tears rolled unchecked down her face and then it darkened as she watched the priest bending over Laura. She wanted him to leave. He was a harbinger of death. If he left, then Laura would live. There is no God! No God, do you hear me! Emma shouted at him, but the shouts reverberated in her head unuttered.
Emma thought her heart was surely breaking. The room was very quiet; the only sounds were the faint swishing of the priest’s cass
The priest administered Holy Communion, made the sign of the cross, and put the wafer in Laura’s mouth. He was anointing her. Emma turned away and looked out of the window. It was all so wasteful. Yes, even sinful. The operation would probably have killed the baby, but Laura would have been alive. This dogma of the Catholic Church was barbaric. Insane. Who cared about the baby? It was Laura they knew and loved.
When the priest had finished the last rites he came to Emma. ‘Mrs O’Neill wishes to speak with you,’ he said dolorously.
Emma brushed past him rudely and flew to the bed. She brought her face close to Laura’s. ‘I’m here, my darling. What is it?’
Laura’s eyelids lifted slowly. ‘I’m sorry to keep asking you to promise me things. Just one more favour. Be brave for Uncle Pat. He’s so old now and he’s going to need your courage, Emma.’
‘Oh, Laura, Laura, don’t slip away from me!’
Laura smiled and her face was glorious, incandescent, and her eyes, so large they seemed to engulf her face, were steady and full of peace.
‘There is no such thing as death in my lexicon, Emma. As long as you live, and Blackie lives, I will live, too, for you will both carry the memory of me in your hearts always. And there will be Bryan for Blackie.’
Emma had no words. She pressed her hands to her mouth, her shoulders heaving.
Laura said, ‘Tell Blackie that I love him.’
‘Yes, darling.’ Emma bit her lip and blinked back the blinding tears. ‘Oh, Laura, what will I do without you?’ she gasped, choked and grief-stricken.