It was the lorry driver who pulled him out of the wreckage a fraction of a second before the car burst into flames. Paul was still unconscious when the ambulance arrived at the hospital in Sydney two hours later. And he remained unconscious for several days. That he had lived at all was a miracle, the doctors said.
Paul manoeuvred himself across his study in the wheelchair until he was directly in front of his desk. He lit a cigarette and then settled down to peruse the pile of legal documents Mel Harrison, his solicitor, had left with him a week ago, just before he had been discharged from the hospital. He had gone over them endlessly, searching for any kind of small omission, or a clause that might lack clarity, and so far he had found none. But to be absolutely certain before he signed them, he went through them for the last time, reading each page slowly, weighing each word scrupulously. At the end of three hours he was satisfied nothing could be misinterpreted. As usual, Mel had drawn the documents with his special brand of brilliance. Every one of them was watertight and would stand up in any court of law, in any country in the world, should they be challenged. He did not expect that to happen. He was mostly concerned that his exact intentions were crystal clear, and indeed they were. Paul smiled for the first time in days. Something had gone right for once.
It was almost six o’clock. Mel was due any moment. What a staunch, supportive, and devoted friend he had been in the last three months since the accident, always there when he was needed, and often when he was not. Preparing legal papers; attending to matters too confidential to hand over to anyone else; visiting the hospital on a daily basis; even neglecting his wife and family at weekends, to sit with him and bolster his courage, to pull him out of the black moods which sometimes engulfed him. Since the bandages had been removed, Paul had not wanted any visitors except Mel and the men who worked for the various McGill corporations. He had certainly not wanted his other friends to see his shattered face. He could not have stomached their sympathy, or their pity.
Despair trickled through him and he closed his eyes, wondering how much longer he could go on. Sometimes he thought he could not tolerate another day of living in this wretched state. What a rotten twist of fate. The accident would never have happened if he had listened to Emma in New York and not returned to Sydney. Now here he was, chained to a wheelchair and dependent on others for almost everything he needed. It was a condition that did not sit easily with him. He had always been in the enviable position of being able to bend life to his will, to reverse circumstances to suit himself. But ever since the crash he had experienced a sense of powerlessness so acute it was devastating. It engendered a monumental frustration that spiralled into blazing anger. Even his money and his influence, always potent weapons in the past, had become quite useless to him.
Smithers, the butler-valet who had been in his employ for years, knocked and entered the study, interrupting Paul’s thoughts. ‘Mr Harrison has arrived, sir. Shall I show him in here, or do you want to go into the sitting room?’
‘In here, Smithers, please.’
A moment later Mel was grasping his hand. ‘How are you, Paul?’
‘Feeling much better, believe it or not,’ Paul said, and motioned to the butler. ‘Fix us the usual, Smithers, please.’
‘Right away, sir.’
Paul swung the chair away from the desk. ‘Let’s sit over there by the fire. I always feel chilled to the bone these days.’
When the butler had left, Paul said, ‘I should have been more forceful with the doctors weeks ago, and made them discharge me then. I think being in familiar surroundings has helped me a great deal.’
‘I’m sure it has,’ Mel said brightly. ‘Cheers, old chap.’
‘Cheers,’ Paul responded. They clinked glasses and Paul went on, ‘I’ve spent a lot of time on the papers, Mel. They’re in good order now. We can sign them later.’
‘Fine, Paul. Incidentally, I told Audrey I wouldn’t be home for dinner. If you can stand my company for a second night running I thought I’d foist myself on you. Is that all right?’
‘Of course. I’d be delighted to have you dine with me.’ He wheeled himself to the bar and poured another scotch. ‘How’s your drink, Mel? Can I freshen it up?’
‘Not right now, thanks. Listen, Paul, I’ve been thinking a lot about Emma these past few days, since you’ve been home. I think we ought to send for her. I’ve discussed it with Audrey, and she agrees with me.’
‘No!’ Paul spun the wheelchair around. He peered into Mel’s face and his eyes blazed. ‘I absolutely forbid it!’ he exclaimed harshly. ‘I don’t want her to see me like this. Besides, the news is getting graver every day. We could be at war with Germany tomorrow. I don’t want her travelling halfway across the world at such a dangerous time.’
Mel regarded Paul carefully. ‘I understand your feelings. But I also dread to think what she’ll do to me when she finds out I’ve lied to her in my letters, just as you have in yours. You also used your considerable influence to keep the details of the accident out of the newspapers, and so she is in the dark about the seriousness of your condition. But isn’t it time you wrote and told her the truth? She should know.’
Paul shook his head. ‘She’s not to know. Not under any circumstances whatsoever.’ He softened his tone. ‘Not yet, anyway. I’ll decide when it’s the right time to tell her.’ His face became morose. ‘How does a man tell a passionate and active woman like Emma that she’s tied to a hopeless cripple who is paralysed from the waist down, who has lost half his face and—’ He paused and looked at Mel intently. ‘And who is impotent. Who will always be impotent. Not easy, my friend. Not easy at all.’
Mel did not know how to respond and such strong feelings of sympathy swept through him he stood up quickly before Paul detected the pity filling his eyes. He stepped to the bar and picked up the bottle of scotch. He said, ‘I think you might be underestimating Emma. In fact, I’m damned sure you are. She would want to be with you. To give you all of her support and love. Let’s cable her, Paul. Now.’
‘No,’ Paul said, his voice suddenly tinged with weariness. ‘I don’t want her to be burdened down with me. I’m no use to her. I’m not much use to myself, if the truth be known.’
Mel walked back to the fireplace, racking his brains for a way to convince Paul to send for Emma. He needed her more than he had ever needed her in his life, but he was an obstinate devil, and proud. ‘Emma wouldn’t see it that way. She loves you. Why, she worships the ground…You,’ Mel quickly corrected himself, and cleared his throat. Then his face brightened perceptibly as another thought struck him. He said rapidly, ‘Look here, if you don’t want Emma travelling, why don’t you book a passage to England yourself? You could be there in a month.’
‘That’s not feasible. I have to go to the hospital almost every day for treatment. There are no medical facilities of the kind I need on board a ship.’ Paul gulped down the scotch and placed his glass on the table. He brought his gaze back to Mel and his eyes were deadly serious, his tone bleak. ‘There is something I haven’t told you, Mel. The prognosis is bad. Very bad, actually. The doctors don’t know how long they can keep the infection out of my kidneys. That’s what usually kills paraplegics—kidney failure.’
Mel stared at Paul and his ruddy face lost most of its colour. ‘H-h-how l-l-long?’ he stammered, unable to complete the question.
‘Nine months—at the most,’ Paul replied in a matter-of-fact voice. He had already adjusted to his death sentence. He had no alternative.
Mel said with a desperate urgency, ‘I think we ought to call in more specialists, Paul. Surely there must be a way to—’
‘No, there isn’t.’ Paul said. ‘If I had broken my spine the doctors could have fused it. But the nerve ends of the spinal cord were crushed. There is no known way to repair those.’
Mel looked away into the fire. He had no words that would comfort Paul. The accident had been a catastrophe, but he had been led to believe Paul had years of life ahead of him, albeit c
onfined to the wheelchair. But now…Oh, God, what a waste of a rare and brilliant man. Eventually, after a long silence, he said, ‘Is there anything I can do, Paul? Anything at all? You only have to ask me.’
Paul smiled gently. ‘No, old chap. Thanks, though. Don’t take this so hard. And for Christ’s sake, don’t start getting maudlin on me now. I need that cheery spirit of yours, and your optimism. Also, you’ve become my right arm and you’re going to be around me a great deal. I don’t want a glum face staring at me. Now come on, let’s have another drink and then we’ll dine. I’ve got some great Chambertin, which my father put down years ago. We’ll have a couple of bottles with dinner. Might as well drink it now, while there’s still—’ Paul bit off his sentence abruptly. He picked up the empty glasses, dropped them into his lap, and rolled over to the bar.
Mel was again unable to respond coherently. He reached for his handkerchief and blew his nose loudly. He looked at Paul’s wide shoulders and broad back outlined above the chair, and his eyes dimmed with infinite sorrow. It was heartbreaking to see that splendid body so horribly broken, that extraordinarily handsome face so hideously ruined. And yet how stoically this incredible man bore his afflictions. The admiration Mel had always held for his oldest and dearest friend increased inordinately. Paul’s unimpaired courage and his strength of character in the face of defeat were immense. He wondered if he could have been so brave and indomitable in similar circumstances. He was not sure. One thing he did know, Paul needed all the support he could get and he was going to do his damnedest to give it to him without reserve.
Much later that same evening, long after Mel had left, Paul sat in his dimly lit study, nursing a balloon of brandy and chain-smoking. His face was calm, his eyes thoughtful as he mused on the conversation of earlier. Perhaps Mel was right. Perhaps he should write to Emma and tell her the truth. In his previous letters he had underplayed the accident and used business as an excuse for his tardiness in not returning to England. Yes, he owed her that. The truth. For all they had been to each other and still meant to each other. And it must be the absolute truth. Nothing less would do for his Emma. He moved the wheelchair up to the desk, pulled a piece of notepaper towards him, and began the letter.
Sydney, July 24, 1939
My dearest darling Emma:
You are my life…
His eyes lifted and rested on the gold-framed photograph of her on the corner of his desk. He picked it up, gazing at it intently. It had been taken a few years after Daisy’s birth and Emma looked radiant and she was smiling that incandescent smile that was so uniquely hers. He thought his heart would burst with his love for her, and unexpected tears welled in his eyes and trickled down his cheeks unchecked. Paul held the photograph to his chest for a long time, hugging it to him as if it were Emma herself he held in his arms, remembering the past, pondering on the future. And he did not write the letter.
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.
A Woman of Substance Page 90
