Best Kept Secret

4





‘AND HOW IS my beloved Emma?’ asked Harold Guinzburg after he’d welcomed Harry to the Harvard Club.

‘I’ve just spoken to her on the phone,’ said Harry. ‘She sends her love, and was disappointed that she wasn’t able to join us.’

‘Me too. Please tell her I won’t accept any excuses next time.’ Guinzburg guided his guest through to the dining room and they took their seats at what was clearly his usual corner table. ‘I hope you’re finding the Pierre to your liking,’ he said as a waiter handed them both menus.

‘It would be fine, if only I knew how to turn the shower off.’

Guinzburg laughed. ‘Perhaps you should ask Miss Redwood to come to your rescue.’

‘If she did, I’m not sure I’d know how to turn her off.’

‘Ah, so she’s already subjected you to her lecture on the importance of getting Nothing Ventured on to the bestseller list as quickly as possible.’

‘A formidable lady.’

‘That’s why I made her a director,’ said Guinzburg, ‘despite protests from several directors who didn’t want a woman on the board.’

‘Emma would be proud of you,’ said Harry, ‘and I can assure you that Miss Redwood has warned me of the consequences should I fail.’

‘That sounds like Natalie. And remember, she alone decides if you return home by plane or row boat.’

Harry would have laughed, but he wasn’t sure his publisher was joking.

‘I would have invited her to join us for lunch,’ said Guinzburg, ‘but as you may have observed, the Harvard Club does not allow women on the premises – don’t tell Emma.’

‘I have a feeling you’ll see women dining in the Harvard Club long before you spot one in any gentlemen’s club on Pall Mall or St James’s.’

‘Before we talk about the tour,’ said Guinzburg, ‘I want to hear everything you and Emma have been up to since she left New York. How did you win the Silver Star? Has Emma got a job? How did Sebastian react to meeting his father for the first time? And—’

‘And Emma insisted that I don’t go back to England without finding out what’s happened to Sefton Jelks.’

‘Shall we order first? I don’t care to think about Sefton Jelks on an empty stomach.’



‘I may not be catching the train to Washington, but I’m afraid I do have to get back to London tonight, Miss Barrington,’ said Professor Feldman after he’d signed the last book. ‘I’m addressing the London School of Economics at ten tomorrow morning, so I can only spare you a few minutes.’

Emma tried not to look disappointed.

‘Unless . . .’ said Feldman.

‘Unless?’

‘Unless you’d like to join me on the journey to London, in which case you’d have my undivided attention for at least a couple of hours.’

Emma hesitated. ‘I’ll have to make a phone call.’

Twenty minutes later, she was sitting in a first-class railway carriage opposite Professor Feldman. He asked the first question.

‘So, Miss Barrington, does your family still own the shipping line that bears their illustrious name?’

‘Yes, my mother owns twenty-two per cent.’

‘That should give the family more than enough control, and that’s all that matters in any organization – as long as no one else gets their hands on more than twenty-two per cent.’

‘My brother Giles doesn’t take a great deal of interest in the company’s affairs. He’s a Member of Parliament and doesn’t even attend the AGM. But I do, professor, which is why I needed to speak to you.’

‘Please call me Cyrus. I’ve reached that age when I don’t want to be reminded by a beautiful young woman just how old I am.’

Grace had been right about one thing, thought Emma, and decided to take advantage of it. She returned his smile before asking, ‘What problems do you envisage for the shipbuilding industry during the next decade? Our new chairman, Sir William Travers—’

‘First-class man. Cunard were foolish to let such an able fellow go,’ interrupted Feldman.

‘Sir William is considering whether we should add a new passenger liner to our fleet.’

‘Madness!’ said Feldman, thumping the seat beside him with a clenched fist, causing a cloud of dust to billow up into the air. Before Emma could ask why, he added, ‘Unless you have a surplus of cash that you need to dispose of, or there are tax advantages for the UK shipping industry that no one’s told me about.’

‘Neither, that I’m aware of,’ said Emma.

‘Then it’s time for you to face the facts. The aeroplane is about to turn passenger ships into floating dinosaurs. Why would any sane person take five days crossing the Atlantic Ocean, when they can do the same journey in eighteen hours by plane?’

‘More relaxing? Fear of flying? You’ll arrive in better shape?’ suggested Emma, recalling Sir William’s words at the AGM.

‘Out of touch and out of date, young lady,’ said Feldman. ‘You’ll have to come up with something better than that if you’re going to convince me. No, the truth is that the modern businessman, and even the more adventurous tourist, wants to cut down on the time it takes to reach their destination, which in a very few years will sink, and I mean sink, the passenger liner business.’

‘And in the long term?’

‘You haven’t got that long.’

‘So what do you recommend we do?’

‘Invest any spare cash you have in building more cargo vessels. Planes will never be able to carry large or heavy items like motor cars, plant machinery or even food.’

‘How do I convince Sir William of that?’

‘Make your position clear at the next board meeting,’ said Feldman, his fist once again banging on the seat.

‘But I’m not on the board.’

‘You’re not on the board?’

‘No, and I can’t see Barrington’s ever appointing a woman director.’

‘They don’t have any choice,’ said Feldman, his voice rising. ‘Your mother owns twenty-two per cent of the company’s stock. You can demand a place on the board.’

‘But I’m not qualified, and a two-hour train journey to London, even if it is with a Pulitzer Prize-winner, isn’t going to solve that problem.’

‘Then it’s time to get qualified.’

‘What do you have in mind?’ asked Emma. ‘Because there isn’t a university in England that I’m aware of that has a business degree on its curriculum.’

‘Then you’ll have to take three years off and join me at Stanford.’

‘I don’t think my husband or my young son would think much of that idea,’ replied Emma, breaking her cover.

This silenced the professor, and it was some time before he said, ‘Can you afford a ten-cent stamp?’

‘Yes,’ said Emma tentatively, not sure what she was letting herself in for.

‘Then I’ll be happy to enrol you as an undergraduate at Stanford in the fall.’

‘But as I explained—’

‘You stated, without reservation, that you could afford a ten-cent stamp.’

Emma nodded.

‘Well, Congress has just passed a bill that will allow American military who are serving overseas to sign up for a business degree without actually having to attend classes in person.’

‘But I’m not an American, and I’m certainly not serving overseas.’

‘True,’ said Feldman, ‘but hidden in the bill’s small print you’ll find, under special exemptions, the word “Allies”, which I’m pretty sure we can take advantage of. That is, assuming you’re serious about the long-term future of your family’s company.’

‘Yes, I am,’ said Emma. ‘But what will you expect of me?’

‘Once I’ve registered you as an undergraduate at Stanford, I’ll send you a course reading list for your freshman year, along with tape-recordings of every lecture I give. On top of that, I’ll set you an essay to write each week, and return it to you once I’ve marked it. And if you can afford more than ten cents, we could even talk on the phone from time to time.’

‘When do I start?’

‘This fall, but be warned, there are assessment tests every quarter that decide if you should be allowed to continue on the course,’ he was saying as the train pulled into Paddington station. ‘If you’re not up to it, you’ll be dropped.’

‘You’re willing to do all that because of one meeting with my grandfather?’

‘Well, I confess I was rather hoping you might join me for dinner at the Savoy tonight so we can talk about the future of the shipbuilding industry in greater detail.’

‘What a nice idea,’ said Emma, giving him a kiss on his cheek. ‘But I’m afraid I bought a return ticket, and I’ll be going home to my husband tonight.’



Even if Harry still couldn’t work out how to turn on the radio, at least he’d mastered the hot and cold taps in the shower. Once he was dry, he selected a freshly ironed shirt, a silk tie Emma had given him for his birthday, and a suit his mother would have described as Sunday best. A glance in the mirror, and he had to admit he wouldn’t have been considered in vogue on either side of the Atlantic.

Harry stepped out of the Pierre on to 5th Avenue just before eight and began walking towards 64th and Park. It only took him a few minutes before he was standing outside a magnificent brownstone house. He checked his watch, wondering what was fashionably late in New York. He recalled Emma telling him she’d been so nervous at the thought of meeting Great-aunt Phyllis that she’d walked around the block before summoning up enough courage to climb the steps to the front door, and even then she only managed to press the bell marked ‘Tradesmen’.

Harry marched up the steps and banged firmly with the heavy brass knocker. As he waited for the door to be answered, he could hear Emma remonstrating with him – Don’t mock, child.

The door opened and a butler wearing a tailcoat, who was clearly expecting him, said, ‘Good evening, Mr Clifton. Mrs Stuart is waiting for you in the drawing room. Would you care to follow me?’

‘Good evening, Parker,’ Harry replied, although he’d never seen the man before. Harry thought he detected the flicker of a smile as the butler led him down the corridor to an open lift. Once he’d stepped inside, Parker closed the grille, pressed a button and didn’t speak again until they reached the third floor. He pulled open the gate, preceded Harry into the drawing room and announced, ‘Mr Harry Clifton, madam.’

A tall, elegantly dressed woman was standing in the middle of the room, chatting to a man Harry assumed must be her son.

Great-aunt Phyllis immediately broke away, walked across to Harry and, without a word, gave him a bear hug that would have impressed an American linebacker. When she finally released him, she introduced her son Alistair, who shook Harry warmly by the hand.

‘It’s an honour to meet the man who ended Sefton Jelks’s career,’ said Harry.

Alistair offered a slight bow.

‘I also played a small part in that man’s downfall,’ sniffed Phyllis, as Parker handed her guest a glass of sherry. ‘But don’t get me started on Jelks,’ she added, as she ushered Harry towards a comfortable chair by the fire, ‘because I’m far more interested to hear about Emma, and what she’s been up to.’

Harry took some time bringing Great-aunt Phyllis up to date on everything Emma had done since she’d left New York, not least because she and Alistair kept interrupting him with questions. It wasn’t until the butler returned to announce dinner was served that they moved on to a different subject.

‘So how are you enjoying your visit?’ asked Alistair as they took their seats round the dining table.

‘I think I preferred being arrested for murder,’ said Harry. ‘Far easier to deal with.’

‘That bad?’

‘Worse in some ways. You see, I’m not much good at selling myself,’ admitted Harry as a maid placed a bowl of Scotch broth in front of him. ‘I’d rather hoped the book might speak for itself.’

‘Think again,’ said Great-aunt Phyllis. ‘Just remember, New York isn’t an offshoot of Bloomsbury. Forget refinement, understatement and irony. However much it’s against your better nature, you’ll have to learn to sell your wares like an East End barrow boy.’

‘I’m proud to be England’s most successful author,’ said Alistair, raising his voice.

‘But I’m not,’ said Harry, ‘by a long chalk.’

‘I’ve been overwhelmed by the American people’s reaction to Nothing Ventured,’ said Phyllis, joining in the charade.

‘That’s only because no one’s read it,’ protested Harry, between mouthfuls.

‘Like Dickens, Conan Doyle and Wilde, I’m confident the United States will turn out to be my biggest market,’ added Alistair.

‘I sell more books in Market Harborough than I do in New York,’ Harry said as his soup bowl was whisked away. ‘It’s patently obvious that Aunt Phyllis ought to take my place on the book tour, and I should be sent back to England.’

‘I would be only too delighted to do so,’ said Phyllis. ‘It’s just a pity I don’t have your talent,’ she added wistfully.

Harry helped himself to a slice of roast beef and far too many potatoes, and it wasn’t long before he began to relax as Phyllis and Alistair regaled him with tales of Emma’s exploits when she’d turned up in New York in search of him. It amused him to hear their version of what had taken place, and only served to remind him just how lucky he’d been to end up sleeping in the next bed to Giles Barrington when he first went to St Bede’s. And if he hadn’t been invited to tea at the Manor House to celebrate Giles’s birthday, he might never have met Emma. Not that he’d even glanced at her at the time.

‘You do realize you’ll never be good enough for her,’ said Phyllis as she lit a cheroot.

Harry nodded, appreciating for the first time why this indomitable lady had turned out to be Emma’s Old Jack. If they had sent her off to war, he thought, Great-aunt Phyllis would surely have come home with the Silver Star.

When the clock struck eleven, Harry, who might have had one brandy too many, rose unsteadily from his chair. He didn’t need reminding that at six the next morning Natalie would be standing in the hotel lobby, waiting to whisk him off for his first radio interview of the day. He thanked his hostess for a memorable evening, and for his trouble received another bear hug.

‘Now, don’t forget,’ she said, ‘whenever you’re interviewed, think British, act Yiddish. And if you ever need a shoulder to cry on, or a half-decent meal, just like the Windmill Theatre we never close.’

‘Thank you,’ said Harry.

‘And when you next speak to Emma,’ said Alistair, ‘do remember to send our love, and be sure to chastise her for not accompanying you on this trip.’

Harry decided this wasn’t the moment to tell them about Sebastian and what the doctors described as his hyper-active problem.

The three of them somehow squeezed into the lift, and Harry received one last hug from Phyllis, before Parker opened the front door and he was cast back on to the streets of Manhattan.

‘Oh hell,’ he said after he’d walked a short way down Park Avenue. He turned and ran back to Phyllis’s house, up the steps and banged on the front door. The butler didn’t appear quite as quickly this time.

‘I need to see Mrs Stuart urgently,’ said Harry. ‘I hope she hasn’t gone to bed.’

‘Not that I’m aware of, sir,’ said Parker. ‘Please, follow me.’ He led Harry back down the corridor and into the lift where once again he pressed the button for the third floor.

Phyllis was standing by the mantelpiece puffing away on her cheroot when Harry made his second entrance. It was her turn to look surprised.

‘I’m so sorry,’ he said, ‘but Emma will never forgive me if I return to England without discovering what’s happened to that lawyer who foolishly underestimated her.’

‘Sefton Jelks,’ said Alistair, looking up from his seat by the fire. ‘The damn man finally resigned as senior partner of Jelks, Myers and Abernathy, albeit somewhat reluctantly.’

‘Shortly afterwards, he disappeared off to Minnesota,’ added Phyllis.

‘And he won’t be returning in the near future,’ said Alistair, ‘as he died some months ago.’

‘My son is a typical lawyer,’ said Phyllis, stubbing out her cheroot. ‘He only ever tells you half the story. Jelks’s first heart attack warranted a small mention in the New York Times, and it was only after the third that he received a short and not very flattering paragraph at the bottom of the obituary page.’

‘Which was more than he deserved,’ said Alistair.

‘I agree,’ said Phyllis. ‘Although it gave me considerable pleasure to discover that only four people attended his funeral.’

‘How do you know that?’ asked Alistair.

‘Because I was one of them,’ said Phyllis.

‘You travelled all the way to Minnesota just to attend Sefton Jelks’s funeral?’ said Harry in disbelief.

‘I most certainly did.’

‘But why?’ demanded Alistair.

‘You could never trust Sefton Jelks,’ she explained. ‘I wouldn’t have been truly convinced he was dead until I’d seen his coffin being lowered into the ground, and even then I waited until the gravediggers had filled in the hole.’



‘Please have a seat, Mrs Clifton.’

‘Thank you,’ said Emma as she sat down on a wooden chair and faced the three governors, who were in comfortable seats behind a long table on a raised dais.

‘My name is David Slater,’ said the man in the centre, ‘and I’ll be chairing this afternoon’s meeting. Allow me to introduce my colleagues, Miss Braithwaite and Mr Needham.’

Emma tried to make a rapid assessment of the three invigilators she was facing. The chairman wore a three-piece suit, an old school tie she recognized, and looked as if this wasn’t the only board he chaired. Miss Braithwaite, who sat on his right, was dressed in a pre-war tweed suit and thick woollen stockings. Her hair was done up in a bun, leaving Emma in no doubt that she was a spinster of this parish, and the set of her lips suggested she didn’t smile that often. The gentleman on the chairman’s left was younger than his two colleagues, and reminded Emma that it was not so long ago that Britain had been at war. His bushy moustache suggested the RAF.

‘The board has studied your application with interest, Mrs Clifton,’ began the chairman, ‘and with your permission, we would like to ask you a few questions.’

‘Yes, of course,’ said Emma, trying to relax.

‘How long have you been considering adoption, Mrs Clifton?’

‘Ever since I realized I couldn’t have another child,’ replied Emma, without adding any details. The two men smiled sympathetically, but Miss Braithwaite remained po-faced.

‘You state on your application form,’ continued the chairman, looking down at his papers, ‘that you would prefer to adopt a girl aged around five or six. Is there any particular reason for that?’

‘Yes,’ said Emma. ‘My son Sebastian is an only child, and my husband and I felt it would be good for him to be brought up with someone who hasn’t had all the advantages and privileges he has taken for granted since birth.’ She hoped her reply hadn’t sounded too rehearsed, and could have sworn the chairman placed a tick in a box.

‘Can we assume from your answer,’ said the chairman, ‘that there are no financial restrictions that might hinder you bringing up a second child?’

‘None whatsoever, Mr Chairman. My husband and I are comfortably off.’ Emma noticed this elicited another tick.

‘I only have one more question,’ said the chairman. ‘You stated in your application that you would consider a child from any religious background. May I ask if you are affiliated to any particular church?’

‘Like Dr Barnardo,’ said Emma, ‘I am a Christian. My husband was a choral scholar at St Mary Redcliffe.’ Looking directly at the chairman, she added, ‘Before he went on to Bristol Grammar School, where he ended up as the senior chorister. I was educated at Red Maids’ School, before winning a scholarship to Oxford.’

The chairman touched his tie, and Emma felt things couldn’t be going much better, until Miss Braithwaite tapped her pencil on the table. The chairman nodded in her direction.

‘You mentioned your husband, Mrs Clifton. May I enquire why he isn’t with you today?’

‘He’s in the United States on a book tour. He’ll be returning in a couple of weeks’ time.’

‘Is he often away?’

‘No. Very rarely in fact. My husband is a writer by profession, so he’s at home most of the time.’

‘But he must need to visit a library occasionally,’ suggested Miss Braithwaite, with what might have passed as a smile.

‘No, we have our own library,’ said Emma, regretting the words the moment she’d uttered them.

‘And do you work?’ Miss Braithwaite asked, making it sound like a crime.

‘No, although I assist my husband in any way I can. However, I consider being a wife and mother a full-time job.’ Although Harry had recommended this line, he knew only too well that Emma didn’t believe it, and she now believed it even less after meeting Cyrus Feldman.

‘And how long have you been married, Mrs Clifton?’ persisted Miss Braithwaite.

‘Just over three years.’

‘But I see from your application form that your son Sebastian is eight years old.’

‘Yes, he is. Harry and I were engaged in 1939, but he felt it was his duty to sign up even before war had been declared.’

Miss Braithwaite was about to ask another question, when the man on the chairman’s left leant forward and said, ‘So you were married soon after the war ended, Mrs Clifton?’

‘Sadly not,’ said Emma, looking at a man who only had one arm. ‘My husband was badly wounded by a German landmine only days before the war ended, and it was some time before he was fit enough to be discharged from hospital.’

Miss Braithwaite still appeared unmoved. Emma wondered, could it be possible that . . . she decided to take a risk she knew Harry would not have approved of.

‘But, Mr Needham,’ she said, her eyes not leaving the man with one arm, ‘I consider myself to be among the lucky ones. My heart goes out to those women whose husbands, fiancés and sweethearts did not return to their families, having made the ultimate sacrifice for their country.’

Miss Braithwaite bowed her head, and the chairman said, ‘Thank you, Mrs Clifton. Someone will be in touch with you in the near future.’