Once she’d signed the check, another new word, Emma asked the receptionist for directions to Merton Street. Three blocks north, two blocks west, she was told. She hadn’t realized that every New Yorker possessed a built-in compass.
Emma enjoyed the walk, stopping several times to admire windows filled with merchandise she had never seen in Bristol. She arrived outside a high-rise apartment block just after midday, unsure what she would do if Mrs Tibbet wasn’t at home.
A smartly dressed doorman saluted and opened the door for her. ‘Can I help you?’
‘I’ve come to see Mrs Tibbet,’ Emma said, trying to sound as if she was expected.
‘Apartment thirty-one, on the third floor,’ he said, touching the rim of his cap.
It was true, an English accent did appear to open doors.
As the elevator made its way slowly up to the third floor, Emma rehearsed some lines she hoped would open another door. When the elevator stopped, she pulled back the grille, stepped out into the corridor and went in search of number 31. There was a tiny circle of glass set in the middle of the Tibbets’ door, which reminded Emma of a Cyclops eye. She couldn’t see in, but she assumed the occupants could see out. A more familiar buzzer was on the wall beside the door. She pressed it and waited. It was some time before the door eventually opened, but only a few inches, revealing a brass chain. Two eyes peered out at her.
‘What do you want?’ asked a voice that she could at least understand.
‘I’m sorry to bother you, Mrs Tibbet,’ said Emma, ‘but you may be my last chance.’ The eyes looked suspicious. ‘You see, I’m desperately trying to find Tom.’
‘Tom?’ repeated the voice.
‘Tom Bradshaw. He’s the father of my child,’ said Emma, playing her last door-opening card.
The door closed, the chain was removed and the door opened once again to reveal a young woman carrying a baby in her arms.
‘I’m sorry about that,’ she said, ‘but Richard doesn’t like me opening the door to strangers. Please come in.’ She led Emma through to the living room. ‘Have a seat while I put Jake back in his cot.’
Emma sat down and glanced around the room. There were several photographs of Kristin with a young naval officer who she assumed must be her husband, Richard.
Kristin returned a few minutes later carrying a tray of coffee. ‘Black or white?’
‘White please,’ said Emma, who’d never drunk coffee in England, but was quickly learning that Americans don’t drink tea, even in the morning.
‘Sugar?’ enquired Kristin after she’d poured two coffees.
‘No, thank you.’
‘So, is Tom your husband?’ asked Kristin as she sat down opposite Emma.
‘No, I’m his fiancée. To be fair, he had no idea I was pregnant.’
‘How did you find me?’ asked Kristin, still sounding a little apprehensive.
‘The purser on the Kansas Star said you and Richard were among the last people to see Tom.’
‘That’s true. We were with him until he was arrested a few moments after he stepped on shore.’
‘Arrested?’ said Emma in disbelief. ‘What could he possibly have done to get himself arrested?’
‘He was accused of murdering his brother,’ said Kristin. ‘But surely you knew that?’
Emma burst into tears, her hopes shattered by the realization that it must have been Bradshaw who’d survived, and not Harry. If Harry had been accused of murdering Bradshaw’s brother, it would have been so easy for him to prove they’d arrested the wrong man.
If only she’d ripped open the letter on Maisie’s mantelpiece, she would have discovered the truth and not put herself through this ordeal. She wept, accepting for the first time that Harry was dead.
GILES BARRINGTON
1939–1941
11
WHEN SIR WALTER BARRINGTON visited his grandson to tell him the terrible news that Harry Clifton had been killed at sea, Giles felt numb, as if he’d lost a limb. In fact, he would have been happy to lose a limb if it would have brought Harry back. The two of them had been inseparable since childhood, and Giles had always assumed they would both score one of life’s centuries. Harry’s pointless, unnecessary death made Giles even more determined not to make the same mistake himself.
Giles was in the drawing room listening to Mr Churchill on the radio when Emma asked, ‘Do you have any plans to join up?’
‘Yes, I shan’t be returning to Oxford. I intend to sign up immediately.’
His mother was clearly surprised, but told him that she understood. Emma gave him a huge hug, and said, ‘Harry would be proud of you.’ Grace, who rarely displayed any emotion, burst into tears.