The Emma Harte 7-Book Collection: A Woman of Substance, Hold the Dream, To Be the Best, Emma’s Secret, Unexpected Blessings, Just Rewards, Breaking the Rules. Barbara Taylor Bradford

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СКАЧАТЬ Emma herself he held in his arms, remembering the past, pondering on the future. And he did not write the letter.

CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT

      Frank Harte left El Vino’s bar and walked down Fleet Street towards the Daily Express, reflecting on the piece he had written earlier that evening. It still sat on his desk, for he had wanted an hour away from the office to think about the tone of it.

      The hour in El Vino’s had not been restful. The bar had been jammed with reporters from all the newspapers, their faces grim, their voices sombre as they had talked about the political situation, which was worsening, and reviewing the depressing news flooding in from all parts of Europe. Now he asked himself if he had been excessive as he considered the piece, written for the Editorial Opinion page. But that fool Neville Chamberlain should be kicked out of office. Winston Churchill was, without doubt, the man they needed as Prime Minister, with war an inevitability. He knew the Old Man agreed with him on that issue. Beaverbrook and Churchill were long-time friends.

      Frank crossed Fleet Street and looked up at the Daily Express, a shimmering sliver of black glass and steel and blazing lights, the modern architecture incongruous, juxtaposed against the time-worn buildings that flanked it on all sides. It was as if the Old Man had deliberately cocked a snook at tradition when he had built the Express, and yet nobody was more traditional than Lord Beaverbrook, tireless defender of the British Empire and all that it entailed. Jealous competitors considered the building to be an eyesore, an offence to the historic Street of Ink, but Frank loved it. He saw it as a tribute to modern journalism and the changing times. The Old Man had been right to build it, for it was certainly the most striking landmark on Fleet Street.

      Pushing through the swinging doors of the Express, Frank traversed the lobby and took the lift up to his office. He threw his hat on a chair, sat down, picked up the column, and propped his feet on the desk. He read his words with as critical an eye as possible. It was good, damned good, even though he said so himself. He would let it stand. He jumped up and took it in to Arthur Christiansen.

      Chris, young editor of the Daily Express, was the boy wonder of Fleet Street. Beaverbrook’s star protégé, he was the man responsible for changing the look and tenor of English popular journalism. In his shirt sleeves, his face flushed, his hair rumpled, he looked harassed but was obviously in total control behind the paper-strewn desk. He gave Frank a cheery grin. ‘I wondered what had happened to you. I was just about to send a copy boy over to El Vino’s to get you.’

      Frank handed him the column. ‘I wanted time to think this over. I thought I might have been too strong.’

      Chris’s bright, probing eyes focused on the pages of copy. He read them quickly. ‘Good man. It’s damned clever, Frank. We’ll run it as it stands. No changes necessary. If you tone it down it will lose its impact. The Old Man will like this. You’ve struck just the right note, as usual.’

      ‘You’re sure it’s not excessive?’

      Chris grinned again. ‘I am. It’s very balanced, in fact. But then everything you’ve been writing about the world situation lately has been thoughtful. And damn it all, let’s face it, you are dealing with facts. Nobody can deny that.’ Chris wrote on the first page: Set as is. No changes. ‘Boy!’ he called, motioning to a copy boy loitering near the door of his office. ‘Run this down to the chief sub.’

      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 СКАЧАТЬ