Robson chuckled. ‘Politics and war-talk and a bit more of both. But it’s still early; some of our best stories don’t hit the fan until just before deadline.’

  They were seated with napkins in readiness. Taylor reached for the wine list. ‘Red?’

  ‘Please.’ Robson read the menu.

  Taylor could sense his hesitation.

  ‘The duck is excellent here. Such a delicate dish to do well.’

  ‘Duck it is,’ Robson agreed. The waiter was there in an instant and gone just as quickly.

  Taylor offered the editor one of his expensive cigars; Robson declined, pulling out one of his own cigarettes.

  ‘Your lad, is he all right?’ Taylor asked after the editor’s son.

  Robson shook his head. ‘As far as we know, but how can one ever know for sure? He wanted to report in Europe. I’m dead against it as you can imagine, but he’s a chip off the old block. How could I stop him? I envy you with two daughters and no sons to risk if the worst should happen …’

  Taylor nodded. ‘There’s been many a time I’ve envied you. What I wouldn’t give to have a son to run the empire.’

  ‘You’ve got two bright girls in Alexandra and Carrie.’

  ‘I’m not as liberal-minded as you, Charles. I expect them to marry well to keep the business going.’

  Both men stopped talking as the waiter approached with the wine. Taylor nodded at the label, sampled it and nodded again. The waiter poured and left them.

  ‘To a prosperous future,’ Taylor toasted. They clinked glasses, smoked and sipped in silence for a few minutes.

  ‘So how is business?’ Robson leaned back, alternating between sipping his wine and puffing on the cigarette.

  ‘Well I hate to say I may prosper from the potential of war but the buzz has been remarkably profitable for us; people are stocking up, businesses are reviewing how they trade and are open to new alliances. Did you hear I’m going after Theroux’s contract when it’s up for renewal?’

  Robson nodded. ‘I did hear that—word travels fast. You’re partnering with Howell?’

  ‘That’s right.’ Taylor nodded impressed with Robson’s inside knowledge.

  ‘Good luck,’ the Editor continued. ‘It’s a huge manufacturing contract from what I hear and if war breaks out …’

  ‘Precisely. Between you and me.’ Taylor looked around, ‘Howell Snr and I are fairly confident we have that one in the bag.’

  Robson looked impressed. ‘Hmm, well luck may not be needed after all. However, I hear Theroux’s very much in favour with the board and he’s doing a brilliant job, even ahead of schedule on delivery. Still nothing ventured …’

  ‘Exactly. Speaking of Theroux, Charles, I want to speak with you about Theroux’s kid,’ Taylor cut to the chase.

  Robson nodded. ‘James.’

  ‘Yes, nice enough young lad but it seems James and my Lexie have formed an … an attachment.’

  ‘I thought Lexie and Howell’s son were engaged,’ Robson said. ‘What’s his name?’

  ‘Anson.’

  ‘Anson, that’s it.’ Robson frowned. ‘Given Theroux’s assets, I would have thought you’d be pleased about an alliance between his son and your daughter?’

  Taylor extinguished his cigar. ‘Yes, James is a promising lad, as is Anson, but I would prefer if Theroux’s lad formed an attachment to my second born. I have plans for Lexie and they involve her marrying Anson—I gave my word on that many years ago. Carrie hasn’t got the concentration span or temperament for my business but Lexie will be an asset and good support for Anson when he runs it.’ Taylor stopped as the waiter delivered their meals. He sipped his wine before continuing.

  ‘The two young people are not formally engaged yet—Anson is waiting until his twenty-first birthday to propose. Howell and I have had those kids partnered since the day they were born. It’s the best way to protect both estates and family names.’

  Robson nodded. He cut into his duck with gusto.

  ‘Good?’ Taylor asked.

  ‘Delicious,’ Robson agreed. ‘But as for protecting both estates, Theroux’s got to be worth a bloody fortune … not that it’s any of my business, but so what if Lexie marries his son … he’d be worth as much as Howell surely, maybe more?’

  ‘It’s not just about money, it’s about the business and the historic merging of two old family estates, plus I gave my word and Howell’s holding up his end of the bargain. James is a clever young man, but he’s not cut out to run a business. He’s a writer.’

  ‘A damn good one at that, a great news sense,’ Robson added.

  ‘Well then I’m happy for him to fall for my second daughter, Carrie, and I’m happy to share in their fortune down the line. But Anson is the one to run my business eventually and I need that boy to come into the family. He’s bright, ambitious and he’s already studying the business. He’ll do the right thing by his father and me, and Lexie will do the right thing by him.’

  ‘I see.’ Robson wiped his mouth with the white linen napkin and nodded as the waiter offered to refill his glass. He turned back to Taylor. ‘So where do I come in?’

  Samuel Taylor sat back. ‘I was wondering if the Daily News might be interested in a fully-funded foreign or war correspondent position, albeit pre-war at this stage, and maybe the editor could also use a bonus for his own … uh development.’

  Robson smiled. ‘You’re good. I do have a few correspondents already overseas, including my son; there’s not much happening there at the moment, but that could all change.’

  ‘Yes, but this would be an exclusive, fully-funded position that would provide Daily News readers with the inside story—an exclusive view of the swelling of unrest that only Daily News readers would be privileged to read about,’ Taylor added.

  ‘It would be a bonus for circulation.’ Robson nodded. ‘We have well over a million readers a day you know?’

  ‘I know,’ Taylor said with growing impatience. ‘I also know that if war was to be declared, car production may soon after be suspended. Could be a very good time to put in an order for some new wheels?’ Taylor saw the interest spark in Robson’s eyes. The deal was done. Taylor raised his glass again. ‘This situation, the possibility of war that is, won’t go on forever. Just long enough to be useful hopefully.’

  ‘I think we have a deal,’ Robson agreed. ‘To the war.’ He clinked glasses with Taylor.

  Chapter 8

  On Sunday, September 3, 1939, at 11.15 a.m., people gathered in the streets, huddled in their homes, and held hands around wireless sets all across the country tuned to the BBC as Neville Chamberlain, the Prime Minister, spoke to the nation from the Cabinet Room at 10 Downing Street.

  He solemnly told the people of Great Britain that the German government had that morning, been given until 11 a.m. to confirm that they were prepared at once to withdraw their troops from Poland, otherwise a state of war would exist between the two countries. He went on to say that no such undertaking had been received and that consequently, the country was at war with Germany.

  Frank Theroux grabbed the table to steady himself; he swayed on his feet. The announcement was not a shock; but now the inevitability that his son, James, would be sent to war, overwhelmed him. James—all that he had left and held dear in the world—was of age to bear arms. He straightened and moved slowly to the window overlooking Autumn Manor’s grounds. Frank lowered himself into a seat and buried his head in his hands. From the doorway, Mrs. Atkinson dabbed her eyes and left to make him a pot of tea.

  James Theroux felt alive; the buzz in the newspaper office was electric. The weekend editor had called all available staff in and was handing out assignments to everyone as they walked through the door. James was given the job of speaking to survivors of the Great War about their thoughts regarding the announcement. He grabbed his notebook and headed for the door, knowing that at some time he would have to face his father and pretend that neither of them was truly worried.

  Samuel Taylor smiled; his plan was going to work well. That Theroux boy would be sent overseas sooner rather than later. Out of sight, out of mind. Then Anson could work on winning over Alexandra. Soon, the two families’ business interests would be safely entwined. Meanwhile, he and Anson’s father had to do some serious lobbying to get that manufacturing contract. The demand would now skyrocket and he knew just how to put Theroux out of the running.

  Moira Taylor dropped to her knees and prayed. Her memories of the Great War were still fresh; she was sixteen when it broke out and she had married Samuel at the end of the war. In her heart, she would not have been devastated had he not returned, not that she would ever have admitted that to anyone, but she had secretly hoped he might not. Then she suffered from guilt and remorse for thinking such evil thoughts. Patrick returned and so did Samuel. Today, she gave thanks to the Lord that she had two daughters and no sons.

  Lexie felt ill. She and Carrie had been window shopping in town when they came across a group of people, listening to the wireless outside Davies General Store. The Prime Minister was addressing the nation, declaring that Britain was now at war with Germany. Several women fainted around her but the younger men, naively, seemed happy.

  Lexie grabbed Carrie’s arm, the colour draining from her face.

  ‘Let’s go,’ Carrie whispered. ‘Mother might need us.’

  Lexie stared at Carrie as though in shock. She couldn’t hear what she was saying.

  ‘Lexie, let’s go.’ Carrie pulled her away from the crowd.

  ‘Yes,’ Lexie agreed, hardly able to remember how to put one foot in front of the other. She needed to see James, she needed to hold him, now.

  Chapter 9

  John Gibson, the weekend editor at the Daily News—a bespectacled and balding man—opened his office door and glanced out across the room. Heads were down and everyone was frantically typing or dictating to secretaries who sat primly with their pads on their knees, taking shorthand. A haze of smoke hung over the room; nearly every journalist had a cigarette between his or her fingers.

  Gibson was a well-liked editor, renowned for being tough but fair. The same could not be said of the top boss, Charles Robson—the very same who had met with Samuel Taylor—who was based in London, but managed nonetheless to put as much pressure on the paper’s country edition as in the city.

  Gibson cast an eye around the room and, spotting James Theroux, yelled out to him. ‘James, got a minute?’

  James looked up and nodded. He held up a finger begging for a few more minutes and typed furiously. At the end of his report, James yanked the sheet out of the typewriter, gathered the pages and headed to Gibson’s office.

  ‘Boss?’

  ‘Come in, come in, take a seat.’ Gibson indicated the tattered leather chair opposite him.

  ‘I just wanted to say congratulations.’ Gibson beamed.

  James nodded. ‘Thanks, boss. For what?’

  Gibson slid a piece of paper across the table. ‘You’ve been selected for the war correspondent position. Robson tells me there were a number of high quality applicants, but you were considered by the panel to have the most promise.’

  James turned the piece of paper around to read it. He wiped his hand across his face, putting a thin shade of black newspaper ink across his cheek.

  ‘You don’t look that pleased,’ Gibson remarked.

  James looked up at him. ‘I didn’t apply; I don’t know anything about this.’

  Gibson looked surprised and shrugged. ‘Maybe you were nominated. I don’t think I’m letting the cat out of the bag to say you are highly regarded by the top brass.’

  James frowned.

  ‘It’s a pretty big honour, James.’ Gibson chuckled, sitting back at his desk. He slid open a drawer and pulled out a box of cigars. He opened the dark wood lid and pushed the box across the table. ‘A celebratory cigar?’

  James looked up from studying the paper.

  ‘Um …no thank you.’

  Gibson took one and leaned forward again. ‘This is an honour, James, we don’t want to lose you here, but you’ve been given a plum opportunity to report from all over Europe to our readers. We’re lucky to even have our own reporter; usually we’d have to pick up bits from the London dailies.’ Gibson clipped his cigar and reached for the lighter. ‘If it wasn’t for the scholarship …’

  ‘Scholarship?’

  ‘Yes, a benefactor put up a scholarship for us to have our own war correspondent.’

  James nodded his head and smiled. ‘He’s good.’

  Gibson puffed and exhaled.

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Nothing.’ James rose. ‘Thank you, Mr. Gibson, thanks very much. Here’s the story you wanted from the Great War vets. If it’s okay with you, I’m going to go and tell my father about the … scholarship?’

  ‘Of course, I knew you’d be excited.’

  James nodded. ‘That’s one way of putting it.’

  *****

  The trip to London normally took Frank Theroux about twenty-five minutes travelling at a comfortable speed; today it took him half that time. He didn’t enjoy the scenery or the thrill of driving his Mercedes Benz Barker Limousine; he was focused on getting there and on arrival he scanned the street for a suitable place to park. Frank Theroux had one thought in mind—his son James ‘winning’ that scholarship.

  He parked his car and stormed into the offices of the Daily News. Passing through the marbled entrance foyer, decorated with framed photos of past headlines, Frank Theroux followed the signs to reception, taking a set of stairs two at a time. He arrived at reception and waited impatiently as the young receptionist finished a phone call. She hung up and looked at him with a smile.

  He demanded to see the editor.

  ‘I’m sorry sir, but he’s in a meeting and can’t be disturbed,’ she informed him.

  ‘Miss, get him out of the meeting or I will go into it.’

  ‘Um,’ she began to stammer and cast her eyes around to look for help.

  ‘It’s very, very important,’ Frank Theroux said in a calmer voice.

  ‘Can I tell him who wants to see him?’ she asked rising and straightening her pencil-thin grey skirt.

  ‘Theroux,’ he pronounced. ‘James Theroux’s father.’

  She repeated his name and wrote a phonetic version of it on her pad. Frank Theroux watched her slip into the back offices through the swinging doors. She glanced back once as though expecting him to do something extreme.

  Frank Theroux turned and walked to the window. He looked down at the street and noticed several people circling his car with interest. He would gladly give it all away to protect James.

  Someone to his right caught his attention; it was his own reflection in a mirror. He was surprised that he didn’t recognise himself: his suit was too large now, he looked tired, gaunt and old. He stood straighter; he wasn’t beaten yet. Hearing a noise he turned around as the Daily News Editor, Charles Robson, followed the receptionist through the glazed doors, at the same time struggling into his suit jacket. Robson extended his hand to Frank Theroux. ‘Delighted to meet the father of James Theroux,’ Robson began.

  Theroux ignored it. ‘A handshake would imply we are friends, Mr. Robson, or at least intending to be cordial to each other and I have no such intention.’

  Charles Robson looked nervous. ‘Would you like to come through to my office …’

  ‘What I have to say won’t take that long,’ Theroux told him. He saw Robson’s eyes flicker to the receptionist and a photographer who had just arrived at the top of the stairs.

  ‘Miss Watson, perhaps you would like to have a tea break,’ Mr. Robson suggested.

  ‘That won’t be necessary.’ Theroux turned to her. ‘I won’t be using offensive language Miss Watson, or saying anything that you can’t hear.’ He returned to study Robson.

  ‘I have heard on good authority that my son has won a scholarship that he never applied for and, as a consequence, has landed a plum position as a war correspondent for this paper.’

  ‘Yes, he’s one of our best …’

  Frank Theroux talked over Robson. ‘This so-called scholarship he won without applying for has less to do with the paper’s need and more to do with Samuel Taylor I assume?’

  ‘Ah, Mr. Theroux, I don’t make it my business to disclose how I determine my staff’s promotions and …’

  ‘Is this true?’ Theroux shut him down.

  Charles Robson swallowed.

  ‘Your son is an exceptional writer and this was a great opportunity for him and the paper …’

  ‘Is it true?’ Theroux thundered again.

  ‘It is not quite that clear cut. As I’m trying to explain, we got offered a fully-funded correspondent position and it was a great opportunity for one of our best journalists …’

  ‘So only your newspaper was offered this fully-funded position paid for by Samuel Taylor?’

  ‘I can’t be sure if any of the other newspapers were offered, um … you would need to speak with Mr. Taylor about that …’

  ‘Oh, I fully intend to speak with Taylor.’ Theroux continued to cut him off. ‘Did you offer the opportunity to all your staff to apply for this scholarship or did this fully-funded position have a name on it already?’

  ‘James is one of our best …’

  ‘Yes, I understand that, Mr. Robson.’

  Both gentlemen stood in silence. Theroux glared at the editor who lowered his eyes. Behind him, the photographer shuffled nervously and the young receptionist looked relieved to have a phone call to answer.

  Theroux sighed and continued in a low voice. ‘Mr. Robson, I understand you have a son who is of fighting age and yet, you would take from me the only family member I have left for the price of a new automobile? I could have bought you twenty new cars if I had known you were a man so easily bought. I am a very wealthy man too, Mr. Robson, but I am a man of honour and so is my son, James. I won’t pay you to not send James away, he would never forgive that. But be it forever on your conscience should anything happen to him.’

 

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