On June 4 Winston Churchill rose in the House of Commons and made a speech on Dunkirk. At one moment he said, ‘We shall fight on the beaches, we shall fight on the landing-grounds, we shall fight in the fields and in the streets, we shall fight in the hills; we shall never surrender.’ Six days later the French Government and the Army High Command fled Paris as the Nazi army drew closer. Four days after that the French capital was captured by the Germans, who took it without firing one shot. France had fallen.
Britain stood alone.
That summer was the worst Emma could remember. In July the Battle of Britain began in earnest. Hitler had ordered an all-out offensive against the RAF, specifically Britain’s aircraft factories and the fighter bases that ringed London. Day after day, night after night, huge fleets of Dornier and Heinkel bombers swept across the Channel to pulverize Britain, while Messerschmitt fighter planes fought off the RAF Hurricanes and Spitfires that rose up into the sky in swift retaliation.
Awakened at night by the screaming air-raid sirens, Emma would get up and stand by the window in her darkened bedroom, looking out at the night sky starkly illuminated by the searchlights and echoing with the incessant drone of the bombers and fighter planes, her heart in her mouth as she thought of Robin, Tony, and Bryan and the other young pilots up there risking their lives. Some nights she was joined by Elizabeth, who had given up the small flat she had taken during her Royal Academy days, and was again living at home. ‘Are you awake, Mummy?’ she would invariably whisper, gliding into the room in her nightgown. ‘Yes, darling,’ Emma would answer, and the two of them would stand together, their arms around each other, watching the planes zooming past.
One night Elizabeth grasped her mother’s arm fiercely, and her voice was unusually harsh when she cried out, ‘Why, Mummy? Why? Why did this ghastly war have to start? What’s the purpose of it? They’re all going to be killed! Tony and Robin and Bryan, and all of our other boys!’
Emma had no answers for her daughter, or for herself. Elizabeth became distraught, sobbing uncontrollably. Emma put her arms around Elizabeth’s shoulders and led her to the bed. ‘They’re not going to be killed, darling,’ she comforted. ‘They’re going to be all right. I promise you. We must be brave. Get into my bed and sleep with me tonight. We’ll keep each other company.’
‘Yes, Mummy, I think I will,’ Elizabeth said, crawling under the covers. Emma held her close, as she had done when she was small and frightened of the dark. ‘Don’t cry and try not to worry, Elizabeth.’
‘If Tony gets killed I won’t be able to bear it,’ Elizabeth said through her tears. ‘I love him so much. And if Robin—’
‘Hush, darling. Try to sleep now. You must have your rest.’
‘Yes, I’ll try. Thank you, Mummy. Good night.’
‘Good night, dear.’
Emma lay in the darkness, waiting for Elizabeth’s tense body to relax and go limp in sleep. But it did not, and Emma knew that her daughter would spend yet another sleepless night worrying about her husband and her twin, as she would herself.
Emma had made a habit of walking to the store in Knights-bridge every day, and as the summer drifted on she did so to the accompanying sounds of anti-aircraft guns, whining sirens, falling rubble, and shattering glass. She would flinch when she saw a favourite landmark demolished, an ancient church in ruins, old haunts she and Paul had frequented flattened to the ground. Yet in spite of London’s devastation, its bleak mood, and the weary expressions on the faces she passed in the streets, Emma would nevertheless marvel at the stoicism and indomitability of her fellow countrymen and countrywomen. Often a cheery Cockney voice would break into a song, perhaps a fireman hosing a pile of smoking bricks or a workman clearing away the debris, and a cab driver would have a breezy comment to make, and they lifted her heart with courage. It was at times like these that she would remember Churchill’s words: ‘We shall never surrender’, and her strength was renewed, a spring returned to her step, her back straightened, and her head flew up proudly. And somehow her burdens seemed all that much lighter to bear.
The summer drew to a close. In September a large portion of the East End docks was destroyed in a massive air attack. The daily raids continued and the RAF pilots were tested to their limits, flying nonstop missions. The usual two- and three-day leaves were cancelled and Emma did not see Robin for weeks. The Royal Air Force was Britain’s last defence, and even though they were outnumbered three to one, the boys in blue in their Spitfires and Hurricanes out-performed the Luftwaffe. By October the Führer’s plan to destroy the RAF and break English morale in readiness for a full-scale invasion had proved a failure. In fact, Hitler had suffered his first major defeat. But the German bombers still continued night raids on the large cities, levelling many to the ground, and the grim years dragged on endlessly. Years of the Blitz; coupons, ration cards, and queues; shortages and deprivations; sorrow and grief as old friends and the sons and daughters of old friends were killed or named missing in action.
But in the midst of the devastation there was the miraculous renewal of life. In 1942, June, Kit’s wife, gave birth to a daughter. Emma was fond of June and delighted at the arrival of a second grandchild, and she went up to Leeds for the baptism of the baby, who was called Sarah. The same year, at the end of the summer term, Daisy left boarding school and came home to live with her mother and Elizabeth in Belgrave Square. Now the house did not seem so lonely and there were even moments of gaiety and laughter, especially when Robin came up from Biggin Hill, where he was stationed. He invariably brought one or two of his RAF friends from the 111th Squadron with him, explaining to Emma, ‘The chaps are going to bunk in with us, Ma. You don’t mind, do you? All the hotels are jam-packed.’ Emma did not mind. In fact, she willingly opened her doors and her heart to those dauntless young pilots.
At Christmas, Robin was fortunate to get a three-day pass at the last minute and he arrived unannounced on Christmas Eve, as usual dragging three friends in his wake. The moment David Amory walked into her living room Emma’s heart missed a beat. He was tall and dark, with bright blue eyes and a flashing smile, and there was something about his looks and his engaging manner that reminded her of Paul McGill. David was not as outrageously handsome as Paul had been as a young man, nor did he have his massive size or his audacious personality, yet he struck a chord in her memory of Paul as he had been during the First World War. David was twenty-four, a new arrival at Biggin Hill and already something of a war hero. With an ingeniousness that was quite endearing, he charmed Emma at once.
That Christmas was a particularly merry one and the house rang with peals of laughter, the friendly but unmerciful bantering that went on between the RAF boys and her daughters, the endless sound of the gramophone and the clink of glasses. Emma entertained gaily, taking them all under her wing, enjoying the fun as much as the young people. But whether she was being the gracious hostess or quietly sitting in a corner, looking on and knitting a Balaclava helmet, she was aware of David Amory. Her smile was benign but her eyes were watchful as she observed the seventeen-year-old Daisy, her most beloved child, being bewitched and falling under the fatal spell of the dashing young RAF officer. And David appeared to be as enamoured with Daisy as she was with him, and he was never far from her side. Emma held her breath, knowing they were falling in love and that there was nothing she could do to prevent it. Nor was she certain she wanted to interfere. After the holidays, David Amory became a constant visitor at Belgrave Square, whether he arrived with Robin or came alone, and over the months Emma took him to her heart. He was from an old Gloucestershire family, well bred and well educated, and had been studying law when the war had erupted. Emma quickly discovered he had integrity and a bright mind, as well as a gentleness that she found appealing, and she could not help but approve of him for Daisy. It did not come as a surpise when David asked her permission to marry her youngest child. He did so in May of 1943, just after Daisy’s eighteenth birthday. ‘But she’s so young, David darling,’ E
mma exclaimed, intending to persuade them to wait. But she found herself saying instead, ‘When do you plan to get married?’
Daisy, who had been hovering nervously by the fireplace, hugged her so furiously Emma winced. Daisy’s face was radiant and her eyes sparkled. ‘Next weekend, Mummy, if that’s all right with you.’
The wedding was quiet, just as Elizabeth’s had been, because of the wartime conditions and Emma’s natural reluctance to display her wealth in such troubled times. Daisy wore a blue silk dress, a matching picture hat, and carried a nosegay of summer flowers. Winston gave her away, Robin was the best man, and Elizabeth the matron of honour. David’s parents and younger sister came up from Gloucestershire for the wedding and there was a small reception at the house afterwards. The young couple had a one-night honeymoon at the Ritz Hotel before David returned to Biggin Hill and Daisy to her mother’s house.
And then, almost before Emma could catch her breath, Robin married Valerie Ludden, a nursing friend of Elizabeth’s, in January of 1944, and a few weeks later Elizabeth gave birth to a son, whom she named Alexander. Elizabeth, who wanted to be close to Tony, found a small cottage near the airfield and moved there when the baby was a month old.
‘It hardly seems possible they are all married now,’ Emma said to Winston one day in the spring, when they were lunching together. ‘Or that I have three grandchildren. I feel as old as the hills.’
‘Nonsense,’ Winston declared. ‘You’re the damnedest-looking grandmother I’ve ever seen. And you’ll never get old, Emma. You have the kind of beauty that is indestructible.’ He grinned at her affectionately. ‘Furthermore, Frank tells me that the American major you met at his house has taken quite a fancy to you. You might find yourself with a suitor before you know it.’
‘Don’t be foolish, Winston,’ Emma snapped, but she smiled as she spoke.
‘I’m not being foolish,’ Winston responded. ‘After all, you’ll only be fifty-five next month. Besides, you look years younger.’ He paused and eyed her carefully. ‘And Paul has been dead for almost five years.’
Emma was silent and Winston changed the subject. He and Frank constantly talked about the possibility of Emma forming a relationship with another man, and they went out of their way to introduce her to their eligible friends. But although she was gracious, she was patently not interested. She would never replace Paul in her life; she did not want to.
The year 1945 began auspiciously for Emma. Daisy gave birth to her first child in January. It was a girl.
‘How do you feel, darling?’ Emma asked as she walked into Daisy’s private room at the London Clinic.
‘Thin,’ Daisy said, laughing. She hugged Emma. ‘I was awfully lucky. It was an easy birth.’
‘Yes, I know. The doctor told me.’ Emma moved a strand of hair away from Daisy’s face and kissed her. ‘I just spoke to David at Biggin Hill. He’s thrilled to bits. Celebrating with the boys from the squadron, and playing the proud father. He’s going to phone you a little later. And good news, darling. He’s got a twenty-four hour pass. He’ll be up in town tomorrow.’
‘Oh, that’s wonderful, Mummy. I can’t wait to see him.’ Daisy wrinkled her nose. ‘I’m not sure who the baby looks like. She’s awfully crumpled and red, poor little thing. But she has black hair, and I think she’s going to have a widow’s peak like yours from the way her hairline is formed. And her eyes are violet. Do you think they’ll change colour?’
‘They might,’ Emma said, sitting down. ‘They often do. Still, yours remained blue.’
‘I’ve chosen the baby’s first two names, Mummy,’ Daisy announced. ‘I’m going to call her Paula McGill. After my father.’
Emma’s face, normally inscrutable, was only too readable for once in her life, and Daisy burst out laughing. ‘Don’t look so shocked. Honestly, Mummy, for a woman as sophisticated as you are, you can be awfully naïve sometimes. Did you think I didn’t know Paul was my father?’
Emma said, ‘I—I—’ and stopped.
Daisy laughed again, but it was a gentle laugh and full of love. ‘Even when I was quite small I thought he was my father. After all, he was always with us and we travelled everywhere with him. Then, as I grew older, I realized how much I resembled him physically. And let’s face it, I never knew Arthur Ainsley, whose name I bear.’ Daisy paused and her bright blue eyes were fixed intently on Emma. ‘Anyway, when I was twelve Paul told me himself.’
Emma’s jaw dropped. ‘Paul told you he was your father! I can’t believe it!’
Daisy nodded. ‘Well, he did. He said he wanted me to know, and that I was old enough to understand. But he said it must be our secret for a few years. He was worried you would be upset. He explained everything to me very directly and carefully, and with so much gentleness. He told me why you and he couldn’t be married, but that he hoped to solve the problem one day. He also told me that he had legally adopted me, and he said he loved us both more than anything in the world.’ Daisy’s eyes were moist. She cleared her throat and finished, ‘Actually, it didn’t come as much of a surprise to me, Mummy, because by that time I had guessed. I told him so, and he really chuckled. He said he knew his Princess was the smartest girl in the world.’
‘Didn’t—doesn’t it bother you, knowing you are illegitimate?’ Emma managed to ask.
‘Oh, Mummy, don’t be so old-fashioned. Of course it doesn’t. I’d rather be Paul McGill’s illegitimate daughter than Arthur Ainsley’s legitimate daughter any day of the week.’
Tears welled in Emma’s eyes and she fumbled for her handkerchief. ‘I—I—don’t know what to say,’ she began falteringly.
Daisy leaned forward and held out her arms to Emma. ‘I love you, Mummy. And I loved Paul. I couldn’t have had better parents if I’d chosen them myself. And you have been the most wonderful mother in the whole world.’
‘But why didn’t you tell me you knew before?’ Emma asked in a muffled voice, her face pushed against Daisy’s shoulder. ‘Why didn’t you tell me when Paul died?’
‘I didn’t think it was really the right time. My main concern was trying to alleviate your grief.’
Emma sat back in the chair, blowing her nose. She smiled weakly at Daisy, her face reflecting her love. ‘I’m glad you know, darling. I should have told you myself. But I thought you would react like—that you would be upset and that you would hate me and Paul.’
‘You are a silly goose, Mummy. I could never hate or criticize you or my father for what you did. You loved each other.’ Daisy took hold of Emma’s hand and squeezed it. ‘I’m proud to be your daughter.’ Daisy gave Emma a questioning look. ‘Are you sure you don’t mind my calling the baby after my father?’
‘I’m thrilled,’ Emma said.
The nurse came in, interrupting them. Emma held the baby in her arms and her face glowed as she looked down at the small bundle nestling against her shoulder. This is Paul’s first grandchild, she thought, and her heart quickened. If only he had been alive to see her. Paula McGill Amory, the first of a new generation in the McGill dynasty.
One week later Daisy came home to Belgrave Square, where her old nursery had been beautifully prepared to receive its new young occupant. Almost immediately the child became the centre of Emma’s world, and if she sometimes usurped Daisy’s role as mother, Daisy did not seem to mind in the least. She was gratified to see Emma so joyous and smiling. And she enthusiastically encouraged her mother when she talked of her plans for Paula and her future.
And the future in general was beginning to look brighter. ‘It’s as if Paula’s birth was a good omen,’ Emma said one morning over breakfast, gesturing to the newspaper she was reading. ‘The Allies are really making a breakthrough. I think the war will end soon.’
She was right in this assumption. As the new year eased into spring, the whole of England took heart. In March, the American First Army crossed the Rhine over the bridge at Remagen and established an invasion bridgehead in Germany. Between April 20 and 25, the Russians entered Berlin
, and five days later Hitler and Eva Braun committed suicide. The Third Reich, which the Führer had said would last a thousand years, had disintegrated in humiliating defeat. On May 7, the Germans surrendered unconditionally at Rheims in France.
Emma was in Leeds on May 8, which was V-E Day in Britain. She dined that night with Winston and Charlotte and they drank two bottles of champagne in celebration. But in spite of the flags hanging out of windows and fluttering on flagpoles all over Leeds, and the festivities going on around them, Emma felt more relieved than jubilant. And she drew her first easy breath in six years. Her sons were safe, and her sons-in-law, and the sons of her brother and her dearest friends, Blackie O’Neill and David Kallinski. There had been no casualties in their families, and for that Emma was deeply grateful.
And slowly they all came home.
‘I just stopped by to congratulate you, Emma,’ Blackie O’Neill said, striding into the drawing room at Pennistone Royal. ‘Winston tells me the Yorkshire Consolidated Newspaper Company has taken control of the Yorkshire Morning Gazette. So you’ve finally won!’
Emma smiled at him faintly. ‘Yes, I have. But then you always knew I would, didn’t you?’
‘Yes, I did.’ He threw her a sharp glance and asked, ‘How did you do it, Emma? I’m very curious.’
A Woman of Substance Page 93
